Blind Love
by MarySkater
Summary: Following a chance encounter with a homeless blind woman, the Phantom employs her as his housemaid. A maid in the house by the lake will make things more comfortable for Christine when she comes to visit. But how long will it take him to realise that his secret doors, hidden from sight, are not so secret to someone who finds her way by touch? Erik/OC
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's note:  
_**_This is a set of linked stories about the Phantom and a new character. The stories start during the events of the musical, and go on to what happened to the Phantom afterwards. It has previously been posted on another web site, and was inspired by a plot suggestion posted there._

_I hope the chaptering will become clear with time. The linked stories in "Blind Love" are:_

_An Unexpected Kindness (7 chapters)  
__A Voice from the Past (4 chapters)  
__Opening Doors (3 chapters)  
__Shadows from the Past (4 chapters)  
__Epilogue (1 chapter)_

* * *

Chapter 1: An Unexpected Kindness - Part 1

The cellar was empty, cold and quiet. Like an animal hunted to its lair, she huddled in a corner, waiting for the pain to subside, waiting for whatever new evil might present itself. She tried to stay quiet, but sometimes the sobbing broke from her. She understood what had been done to her. Her mother had warned her of what bad men would do to an unprotected woman… what had once been done to her mother, that resulted in her own birth.

After a long time, a soft movement came to her ears. Not from the direction of the street, where she had come in, but from the back wall, which had seemed blank and solid. There was a scraping sound of stone, and a man's voice, harsh, angry. "How did you come here? You have no business here."

Her head turned a little towards the street, to the iron grating. At ground level on the street, she had fallen through it to the cellar, and accepted the refuge. She had tried to push the grating back into place, but it did not seem to fit properly. The man crossed the floor quickly, and she heard the click as the grating was secured. "How did you open it?" he demanded. "The catch is hidden. No one should be able to find it."

"I…" Her throat felt harsh, her voice scarcely a whisper. She coughed and tried again. "I fell against it… took hold of the bars for support. I felt something move… and it opened. I needed a place to hide…"

"I'll let you out. You can go home."

"I have no home. The apartment… my mother paid the rent. But my mother died, and I have no money. The landlord threw me out. He took all my possessions… said it was owed to him…"

"Then you can live on the streets," he replied callously. "Many do."

"I know. You will throw me out as my landlord did. But I have no more possessions for you to steal. The… the only other thing I valued… was taken from me… just a few hours ago…"

Light footsteps came closer. Perhaps, in the gloom of the cellar, he was taking in her appearance, the state of her clothing, the tear-tracks on her face. "Oh. I understand." His voice was softer now. "Well… perhaps I owe you something, for pointing out the weakness in my defences. If you come with me, I will take you to a place where you can rest – rest alone," he added, as she drew herself into a tighter huddle. "If you will not, then it must be the street. When day comes, people can see into this room. It must look empty and abandoned."

After all, what did it matter, now? "I will come," she answered tonelessly.

There was a pause, then he said, impatiently, "Well, if you will not take my hand, get up by yourself."

"Your hand?" She raised her own hand, tentatively. There was a soft exclamation, and the smell of candlewax as a lantern was brought closer. A hand took her chin and tilted her face up.

"You're blind!"

"Yes," she replied wearily. "From birth. And I have been told many times, my eyes are white and dead, horrible to look upon."

After a pause, he replied, "I am the last person who should reproach you for your appearance." He took her hand and pulled her to her feet, then led her to the back of the room. "Reach out and feel the doorway. It is narrow."

She touched the sides of the opening, cold stone, and eased herself through. There was more scraping as he closed the door behind them. With her hand on his arm, he led her for some time through chill corridors and down ramps. Eventually, after passing through a wooden door, she felt the space of a room about her, and it was warmer. He led her to a chair, left her for a few minutes, and returned with a tray, which he placed on a table beside her, guiding her hand to it. "The large goblet has water, the smaller one wine. There is bread and cheese on the plate. Refresh yourself, while I prepare a place for you to sleep."

She drank the water thirstily, and tasted the wine, but she had no stomach for food. After a long time, his footsteps returned.

"You… what is your name?"

"Madeleine."

"Very well, Madeleine, come with me." He took her hand; his touch was rather cold. She had noticed that before, without really thinking about it. Like marble… no, like leaves on a branch, cool but alive. Along a passage, he stopped and put her hand on a door. "This is a store-room. Rather cluttered, and with few comforts. But the door can be locked from inside. I thought you would prefer that." Inside, there was a camp-bed, a chair and a small table, squeezed amongst piles of boxes. "There is a rail here with some gowns and robes, if you wish to change your clothes. Now, come back to the passage. Reach your right hand to the wall. I have strung a cord there. Follow it… yes… this door is a bathroom. Feel free to use it." He guided her round the various fittings. "Confine your movements to your room and the bathroom, or you will get lost. If you have all you need, I will leave you to rest, and call you in the morning."

His soft footsteps moved away. She never knew if her tentative, "Thank you, Monsieur," was heard.

Madeleine washed herself, again and again, and washed the clothes she had been wearing. Wrapped in a borrowed robe, she followed the guide-cord back to her room, and locked the door. To be clean, to be secure… it was what she yearned for. How had he known? His manner was brusque, with little of kindness. He seemed to find her a problem to be dealt with, not a fellow-creature to be helped. Yet his way of dealing with the problem had given her what she needed. He had been angry when he first found her, but… his anger was cold. He was controlled. Yes, that was it. Those men who… those other men… they had no control. They laughed, shouted, staggered drunkenly, swore. This man, Monsieur as she thought of him, may have found her to be a problem, but he had allowed her a locked door. Her mind dwelt on him, as a way to avoid thinking of other things, until she slept.

O-O-O

A soft tap on the door; "Madeleine?"

"Yes, Monsieur." Already up and dressed, she opened the door to him.

"An early riser, I see. Come then, and have some breakfast."

He took her to another room, seated her by a table. Her hands roved delicately across the table, locating things. She did not touch the food, but sometimes lifted a dish so that she could smell it. "Bread, butter, coffee… May I have some of these?"

"Yes. Whatever you like." She sensed him watching as she helped herself, then she heard the movement as he sat and began to eat.

"How did you live, before your mother died?" he asked after a while. "Were there just the two of you?"

"Yes. My mother worked in a shop… she was well-spoken and she dressed nicely, so the customers liked her. I mostly stayed at home. I made things for the shop. I can knit and sew… at least, I could. Now I have lost my belongings… the little device to help me thread needles, other things to take the place of sight. I cooked for us, kept the apartment clean, tried to be useful."

"Do you know where you are, now?"

"I have been thinking. I ran from… from the place I wanted to get away from. When I stumbled and fell against your grating, I was at the back of the Opera House. I think that basement room must have been part of the building. We walked a long way from there, but we never came outside. I think we must still be under the Opera House. They tell me it is huge – a city all of its own."

"That is true, with a population all its own. I live here, in a small corner of the many basements."

"And then the clothes you left for me, even this dress. The fabrics are heavier than normal, but they are much worn and mended. Costumes, perhaps? Not ordinary clothes? Understand, I make no complaint. I am very grateful."

"You have a brain, I see. And your hands make some compensation for your lack of sight. Well, what now? Is there anywhere you wish to go? Do you have friends, relatives? What would you like to do now?"

"I have… no one. Nowhere to go. I wish… I wish there was some kind of work I could do, honest work to earn my living. I fear, though, that there is only one kind of work open to me now. If I must, I will do that, rather than starve. But I wish I had any other choice."

"You would not be too proud to do housemaid's work?"

"Too proud! I would welcome such a chance. I can wash dishes, do laundry, simple cooking. But with my blindness, my ghastly eyes, with no references… who would employ me?"

"Listen, then. I live alone here, for reasons which I will not explain, and you will not ask. There is… a lady… whom I visit, and who I hope will visit me here. It occurs to me that it would be more seemly if there were a maid in attendance, when she comes. Also, I have work to do. I am a musician, a composer. It is inconvenient for me to lay my work aside, to sweep the floors or make up the fires. If you wish, you may stay here, and work as my housemaid. We will make that room more comfortable, you will have your food and clothes, and suitable wages. I will show you the boundaries of my apartment. It's best you do not wander beyond those limits. This is a theatre, a place of illusion and trickery. There are traps, pitfalls, confusing passageways. It is a dangerous place, even for the sighted.

"But there is a condition to your staying here. You must swear to me that if you leave this building, you will never speak of me or my home to anyone. You must be silent to all questioning. And understand, I have ways of knowing if I am betrayed."

"Oh, Monsieur! I accept your condition gladly! My word of honour, your secret goes with me to the grave. To have a home, a safe place! How can I thank you?!" She moved quickly round the table until she touched his shoulder. Kneeling, she took his hand and pressed it to her lips, but she felt him tense, as though barely restraining himself from snatching the hand away. She released her hold and bowed her head. "Forgive me."

He took her by the arms and raised her to her feet. "There is nothing to forgive, and no need to kneel to me. I am your employer now, and I shall expect fair work in exchange for fair wages."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: An Unexpected Kindness – Part 2

It took a little time to establish a routine. Madeleine found a long, light cane in the store, and used that to guide her steps round the apartment. Her employer assigned tasks to her, and watched to see if she could manage. A few days after her arrival, he deposited a large box in her room. "I sent a message to an agent of mine, to provide a complete set of clothes suitable for a maid. See if all you need is here, and ask me if you want anything more."

One thing she did want, but found for herself, a scrap of velvet that she could fasten over her useless eyes. He had never complained about their dead-white stare, but she knew how people reacted, and was more comfortable with them covered. For the most part, Monsieur was a tolerant master, making allowances for her lack of sight. But in the apartment was a spare bedroom, never used but beautifully furnished. That had always to be perfect, with fires lit regularly to keep it aired. If she left a scatter of coal-dust on the hearth, or failed to spread the bedcovers accurately, he would call her back, cold with displeasure, and stand over her issuing instructions, until the fault was corrected.

There was compensation, though, in the beautiful music that he made. She learned not to disturb him when he played organ or violin or piano, but she listened enraptured. Sometimes he was almost genial, asking her what tunes she liked and playing them, even singing for her in a voice of unearthly beauty. Other times, he grew intense, taciturn, with anger or frustration sounding in his music. At such times, she retreated to her room, leaving him to the solitude he needed.

He often left the apartment for several hours, occasionally even for a few days. When she had learned the pattern of his movements, she took advantage of his absence to explore the passageways nearby. He had warned her that this was dangerous, but had not absolutely forbidden her. Now she concealed her wanderings from him, not wanting to earn that prohibition – or, worse, be sent away altogether. Oddly, she was safer in the dark cellars than a sighted person relying on uncertain lamplight. She had a lifetime's experience of using touch to check the ground beneath her feet and the walls surrounding her; in this place, her blind eyes had a use, for they were sensitive to air currents. She found the airshafts that yawned into the corridors, the stairs and ladders up or down. She found, right by the house, the great water-tank with its little quay. Sometimes the boat was moored there, when he disappeared for some days. But usually, the boat was missing, and then she knew that a few hours would see his return.

One day she set out along the route by which he had first brought her to his house. Her memory and sense of direction were excellent, but part-way along, she found the passage blocked. It made no sense to have a corridor ending nowhere, and her hands explored the brick barrier, trying to recall the catch in the grating through which she had first fallen into Monsieur's domain. After a while, she found a section of brick which moved under her hand, but still the way was closed. Persisting, she found two more hidden springs, but even then, they had to be released in the right order. Finally, the brick door swung open, and she enjoyed her small triumph. The door must have been open when he first brought her here. Carefully holding it open, she felt for the catches on the other side, and satisfied herself that she could close and open it from either side. Then, having spent enough time away, she went back to the apartment, but promised herself further exploration in the future.

Madeleine had her own image of Monsieur. The touch of his hands was familiar, from when he guided her or demonstrated some task. From his voice, she knew that he was past first youth but not yet old. Brushing his suits and washing his linen told her that he was rather tall, slender, beautifully dressed, fastidious in his personal grooming. But one day, a discovery added to her knowledge, and yet puzzled her. She was cleaning his bedroom, while he played the piano in the living room. Usually, he was very tidy, and she had been told not to delve into drawers or cupboards. On this occasion, she brought in his water bottle and glass, newly cleaned and filled. As she put them on their table, her hand touched something else, on the surface which was usually free from obstruction. Curious, she passed her hands very gently over the objects, careful not to disturb them. Something soft, something hard… Fixing the position in her mind, she lifted the soft object. Hair, mesh… a wig. A full-head wig, smooth and perfect. Was he bald, then? Some men were very self-conscious about baldness. Replacing it, she tried the hard object. Its angles and curves baffled her at first, then as she turned it, she found the shape of a nose, and an eye-hole. A mask! But why? Briefly, she held it against her own face. It would scarcely conceal identity, with one side completely open. Then what did it conceal? She touched the velvet band which hid her blank eyes, and wondered. Then carefully she replaced mask and wig exactly as she had found them, took her tray and returned to her other tasks in the kitchen.

Some evenings, when Monsieur was away, Madeleine would sit at the piano, trying to work out scales. One day he came home and surprised her at the keyboard, but he was not annoyed, only rather amused. He corrected her fingering, and taught her basic scales. She was happy to learn them, but he advised her not to get complacent. "You have played two simple scales, a handful of times. If you want to go on with this, practise just those scales, until you have played each at least a hundred times – when I am not here, if you please! Then, if you are not wearied, I will teach you a little more."

It soon became clear that she had no exceptional talent for music, but she enjoyed the sound of the piano, and practised diligently enough. Monsieur taught her scales and exercises, then a few simple tunes, when the fancy took him. Sometimes he was in no mood for this toy music, and she learned to keep out of his way at such times. She had no resentment if he was short with her, or sent her to her room. His real music seemed to her to be work of genius, and she was the more astonished that he ever found time to spend with her. After a while, he taught her a new tune. It had a lilting elegance that delighted her, and yet it was surprisingly easy to play. When she had mastered it, she asked him what it was called.

"Whatever you like," he replied. "I wrote it for you, so you may name it as you will."

"For me! You wrote it for me!" she gasped. "Oh, Monsieur…" As she had done once before, she knelt at his feet, seized his hand and kissed it, but this time he snatched it away.

"Enough! You make too much of a trifle. Go to your room, until you have calmed yourself."

Alone, Madeleine wept quietly. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have forgotten what he had clearly never forgotten? – that she was a woman defiled, impure. He might touch her in the way of business, to guide or instruct her, but for her to touch him with affection… of course he had recoiled. Any decent man would recoil from her. No Cinderella story for Madeleine. This prince would never love the kitchen maid. If she was not to lose him altogether… if she was even to remain his maid… she must put right her error. Sternly bidding her heart to silence, she put her mind to work.

Next morning, she was in the kitchen when she heard him enter the living room. Going out to him immediately, she curtseyed formally. "Monsieur – may I speak to you for a moment?"

"Well?" His voice was neutral, giving nothing away.

"I wish to apologise for my behaviour last night. I embarrassed both of us, by making so much fuss over your gift to me. You gave me that sweet little tune, as some other man might give a lollipop to a child, and I do thank you for it. But it was the surprise… an unexpected kindness can sometimes pierce the heart. I shall try to behave better in future."

"An unexpected kindness…" His voice was soft now, and he paused for a moment. "Yes, you are right, such a thing may strike like a lightning bolt. Very well, we shall put the incident behind us. But be sure to practise your tune, to do it justice."

O-O-O

Soon after, Monsieur went away on one of his longer absences. Madeleine, still feeling unsettled, went exploring again, this time beyond the locked door in the passageway. Her hand, trailing along the wall, found a small unevenness which she suspected was another hidden door, probably the one into the cellar where Monsieur had first found her. But she did not want to go that way. That room opened to the street, if one could bypass the grating, and she wished neither to leave nor to be seen by outsiders. What had brought Monsieur here, that night? Was this still part of his realm? Giving her attention to the other side of the passage, she searched more carefully for cracks and gaps, and at length her questing fingers seemed to detect another of Monsieur's concealed doors. The catches were similar to those on the passageway door, and soon this new entrance was released.

Madeleine stood listening for some time before she opened the door, but there was no sound, no movement of air to suggest that any other person was near. Eventually she opened the door a little, and slipped through. A room, well-enough ventilated, but with no opening to the street. Cautiously, she felt her way round. This place was furnished, sparsely. Two narrow beds stood against the walls, with stripped mattresses and neatly-folded blankets. An iron stove was cold, but laid with kindling, and a box of coal was to hand. In an alcove were a sink, some utensils, and crocks and cans which she expected held preserved food. A plain wooden door opened on a compact lavatory. A cupboard held clothes; one of Monsieur's elegant suits, other garments such as might be worn by clerks or workmen. There were also two dresses, and other women's clothing. Everything felt a little damp and chilly, but the stove could banish that in a few hours.

A sanctuary, then. A place where Monsieur – and another – could come to hide, if danger threatened. The "other" was not herself, she was sure, but someone who mattered more. The lady he had spoken of? She added all this to her knowledge of the man who lived hidden, who wore a mask, who would not talk about himself. It was hard to avoid the conclusion that he was some kind of criminal. And yet he had given Madeleine a home, saved her from a life on the streets. For that, he deserved her loyalty. Leaving everything as she had found it, she re-locked the door carefully, and made her way home.

One evening, Monsieur returned earlier than usual, and Madeleine heard voices, his and another, approaching the door. His lady! She had come! Going quickly to the kitchen, she set two glasses and a decanter of wine on a silver tray. His voice called her from the living room, and she went in, the tray cradled on one arm, her guiding cane held in the other hand. She paused in the doorway, wondering where they were standing.

"Thank you, Madeleine," Monsieur said. "On the small table, please." As she crossed the room and put down the tray, she heard a soft exclamation from the woman. Now she knew where they were, and curtseyed towards them. "Monsieur… Madame… can I get you anything else?"

"Your eyes," the woman began. "How can you manage with them covered?" Her voice was gentle, expressive.

Madeleine touched the black band across her face. "My eyes have always been blind, Madame. This is so that other people need not be troubled by the sight of them. Monsieur is considerate, and does not move things about. It is not so difficult for me to do my work."

"You see, Christine, this is a place of surprises," said Monsieur. "Madeleine, this is Mademoiselle Christine Daaé. She has come for a singing lesson. You may return to the kitchen, or to your room. We shall call you if we need anything."

Madeleine sat in her room with the door open, listening to the soaring music. Christine had a superb voice, and indeed, Monsieur deserved nothing less. Later, when Christine had retired to the spare room, Monsieur sent Madeleine to her to ask if she needed anything. The lady spoke kindly to Madeleine, and Madeleine hoped that she would be as kind to Monsieur.

Next morning, Madeleine was woken early by Monsieur's music. He was composing – she knew the pattern, when phrases were repeated or varied slightly, then the pauses while he wrote. She reached out to the cheap glassless clock at her bedside, and felt the hands. It was too early for breakfast, but she rose and dressed, to be ready when wanted.

Dear God! – that scream! A woman's scream, a man's shout of anger. Christine and Monsieur – but what had happened? He shouted again, a hot anger that Madeleine had never heard aimed at herself. Then his voice subsided to a snakelike hiss. She could not make out the words, but the anger was still there. Then something that sounded like a sob from Christine. Madeleine stood irresolute in her doorway. Should she go to them? But what could she do? After a pause when the voices were too low for her to hear, Monsieur's voice rose again, this time in command rather than anger. "Come – we must return." More distantly she heard the sound of the front door, then silence.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: An Unexpected Kindness – Part 3

He did not return for several hours. Madeleine, polishing the living room floor, paused in her work as he entered.

"Still here, Madeleine?" he asked sharply. "After that… disturbance… this morning, I thought you might have grown afraid, and fled."

"I am not afraid of you, Monsieur. I heard… that you and Mademoiselle had a quarrel, but I do not know the cause. I hope that… matters can be mended, in time."

"Who knows? She has the voice of an angel, and I could do so much with that voice. But the voice is part of a woman, with a woman's besetting sin of curiosity, a sin that can do much harm. Have you no curiosity, Madeleine? You are also a woman."

"I have curiosity, Monsieur, but also the common sense to curb it. If I grew curious about fire, and put my hand into it, I would be burned. If I grew curious about you and this strange life you lead, I would be dismissed from the safe haven you have given me. There are questions that I will never ask, because any answer would be worse than none."

"Well and good. Continue to think so, and your haven is safe enough."

But he changed after that. His absences grew lest predictable, and Madeleine ceased her wanderings, lest they be discovered. He muttered to himself, sometimes giving vent to malicious laughs, more often to angry curses. These were not directed at Madeleine, but she took care to do her work properly, and to keep out of his way. Soon he threw himself into his music, composing pieces that she had never heard before. This new work unsettled her. It seemed to be full of anger. Even those passages which should have been joyful or tender carried undercurrents of rage, or of cruelty. He sat at piano or organ, seemingly for days on end, with little rest. He never stopped for meals. Madeleine, unasked, would put food and drink on a tray, and set it down where he could see it. When she retrieved the tray later, sometimes he had eaten, sometimes not. She was afraid for him, and it was with relief that, one day, she heard the thump of a book being closed, and his mutter of, "It is done."

Once more he began leaving the apartment regularly. At home, he sometimes threw a comment in her direction, and she understood that the opera company was rehearsing his work. He was exultant, but anger still burned in him. Sometimes he spoke to himself of betrayal, and a reckoning. He said nothing of Christine. Madeleine continued to keep the spare room clean and ready, but he no longer checked her work. The day came when the opera was to open. Monsieur left the apartment early, and Madeleine was oppressed with a sense of impending doom. She tidied everything and made up the fires, then retreated to her room to await events. With the door from the living room to the passage slightly ajar, and her bedroom door open, she could hear what passed, unobserved.

Monsieur returned, and Christine was with him. Even before she could distinguish the words, Madeleine knew from the voices that both were angry. This time Christine came not willingly, but by force. Why had he done this? From what Christine said, she expected rape, though she faced him defiantly. Madeleine hoped Christine was wrong. Reluctant as she was to interfere, powerless though she knew herself to be, Madeleine could not stand by and leave another woman to endure that suffering… and nor did she want Monsieur to poison his soul with such a crime. Madeleine stood tense and shivering, poised to throw herself into the room if events took that turn.

But there was a diversion. Another man blundered into the scene. Alert, Madeleine was as ready to rush to Monsieur's defence as, a moment ago, she had been ready to thwart him. But there was no need. Clearly Monsieur had easily overpowered him, and was still in control of the situation. The story unfolded itself to Madeleine. The newcomer, Raoul, was in love with Christine, and she with him. Monsieur wanted Christine… could you call it love, when expressed with such violence? And now Monsieur had a hostage. Christine must yield to him, or watch Raoul die. It seemed that she would yield… there was a long silence. In that silence, Madeleine became aware of a new sound, distant, the muttering of many voices.

Then Monsieur spoke again, but his voice now was low, shaken. Madeleine strained to catch his meaning… He was telling them to go! Both of them! To go and leave him.

Tears spilled from Madeleine's eyes. She had misjudged him. He did love Christine after all, loved her enough to give her freedom, whatever the cost to himself. But what would he do now? The distant voices sounded clearer, shouting and threatening. Silence from the living room, then footsteps, the door, a splash… With a sob, she ran through the house, rebounding from door frames and furniture in her haste. God, let her be mistaken… the quayside… but where…? Dropping to hands and knees, she groped her way along the edge. She felt the wet patch, and her hand found Monsieur's cloak, dropped on the stone. How deep was the water? She could not swim. Lying on the edge, she thrust her cane into the water, feeling it touch bottom. Less than five feet, she judged. She could stand in it. Then the cane touched something else, something soft. Leaving her cane, she slid into the water, took a breath, and plunged under. Her clothes hampered her, but somehow she reached the inert form, seized his coat and pulled. She dragged him to the surface and held up his head, but there was no response. Clumsily she pushed him up on to the quay, shoulders, chest… as he doubled over at the waist, his legs still in the water, she thought she heard a cough or a gasp, but he did not move. Gripping his legs, she pushed again until he lay on the stone, then she struggled to free herself from the biting cold of the water. Her hand found a mooring ring, and with its help, she crawled clear.

Now what? Those people… closer now, not more than one level above. Surely they would find the way here soon, and their shouts were angry. No help there, only danger. She must get him away, quickly, and she knew where to go. But how to move him? He was breathing, but made no response even when she shook him and slapped his face. He was not a heavy man, but she could never carry him. Spreading out his cloak , she rolled him on to it, then wrapped it around him and used her apron to tie it close. If she held the collar, she could drag him, and the floors were fairly smooth. Pause… think a moment… retrieve the cane… she must make no mistake now. Once sure of the way, she set off as quickly as she could with her burden.

Perhaps ten minutes later, though it felt like hours, she stopped, gasping for breath, at the door which blocked the passage. She worked the hidden catches, slid the inert body through, and closed the door behind her. Would any of the pursuers think to follow the wet trail through the corridors? If they did, she had to hope that the door would defeat them. Gathering her strength, she set off once more towards the sanctuary.

O-O-O

When she had done all she could, Madeleine sat quietly and rested. The stove was hot now, and Monsieur's clothes were draped near it to dry. She had dressed him in a loose shirt and trousers, workmen's clothes from the cupboard, dry and warm. Her own garments were dry, but she knew they must be crumpled and untidy. There were women's clothes here, but they were not for her. Eventually, she heard him stir. If he was waking, he would want light. She lit a candle, then moved her chair to his bedside.

"What… what is this?" he whispered. "Surely… this is the refuge. Madeleine? How do I… how do we come to be here? No one knows this place…"

"I know it. I found it months ago, exploring, when you were away. I brought you here. I feared those people were enemies."

"Yes, they were enemies. But what did it matter...? Christine…? Oh… I let her go… I let both of them go… And then… I would not let the mob bring me to bay, like a hunted stag. I took… the nearest way out. At least, so I thought." His hand went to his head, feeling the bandage there. "Did you do this? Bandage my head? Why?"

"You are hurt. A graze, swelling, some blood… here." Touching his shoulder, she ran her hand gently up to the side of his head. "Just behind the old scars. Perhaps you hit it when you went into the lake, or perhaps I caused it when I pushed you out."

"Oh. And I suppose those busy little fingers of yours have been exploring the rest of my secrets, discovering this horror that I call a face."

"Of course I touched you. I dried you and warmed you and did my best to check for injuries. I found… some strangeness, but nothing of horror." She had kissed him, too, while he lay unconscious, but this was not the time to tell him that. "May I give back to you the words you spoke to me at our first meeting? I am the last person who should reproach you for your appearance."

"But who helped you? You could not have done all this alone."

"And yet I did. Do you think I would tell anyone else about your secret doors, about this sanctuary? I had no help."

He sighed. "I suppose you think yourself clever."

She thought for a moment before answering. "That depends on you. If, now, you decide that you want to live, then what I did was… perhaps clever, or at least resolute. For it was not easy, I admit. But if you really want death, if you would rather I had left you on the bottom of the lake… then I was not clever but foolish and selfish, acting wrongly because I could not bear to lose you. So you tell me, Monsieur. Was I foolish, or was I clever? Do you choose death, or life?"

She waited a long time for an answer, then she heard the bedclothes rustle as he sank wearily into the pillows. "I shall… consider the question… and let you know in due course."

* * *

_**Author's note:** Thank you for reading this far. If you have any comments to leave in the 'review' box, I'd be very interested to read them._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: An Unexpected Kindness – Part 4

Madeleine drifted slowly up from a deep sleep. Memory stirred… Monsieur had been sleeping quietly, so finally she had made up the second bed for herself. It felt as though she had slept a long time. What had woken her…? A smell…? Coffee! She roused herself.

"Awake at last?" Monsieur's voice asked her. "You must have been exhausted, sleeping like the dead. You did not even wake at the noise when I raked out the stove. Sit up now, and have your coffee."

She pushed herself upright, then suddenly pulled the blanket up, realising how lightly-clad she was.

"Don't be uneasy," Monsieur said. "Your shift is quite decent. If we are to share these close quarters for a while, we must learn to be less formal." He took her hand and guided it to a coffee cup. She drank gratefully, while Monsieur went on – was that a smile in his voice? – "After all, you did strip me naked yesterday, and dressed me afresh."

She smiled tentatively in reply. "But I promise, I did not look at you!"

"Ha! True. And I shall not look at you, if you wish to change your clothes. But feel free to use the washroom, if it makes you more comfortable. Indeed, you must want to go there now, after your long sleep." As Madeleine made to rise, Monsieur guided her feet into velvet slippers, and wrapped a robe round her shoulders. "There are clothes in the wardrobe. You should use them."

"They are not mine… you did not bring them here for me, but for…"

The catch in his breath was soft, but she heard it, and stopped. After a moment, he continued in the same light tone as before. "There have been times when I have dressed as a woman, but these are not my size! They will fit you well enough."

Some time later, Madeleine emerged from the washroom, wearing a simple dress which she knew Monsieur had intended for Christine, if he had ever had to bring her to this refuge. She could tell that he was trying not to think of Christine and all that he had lost. Instead, he was attentive to Madeleine, seating her and giving her breakfast. She had, after all, saved his life. The question remained unanswered, of whether he had wanted to be saved.

When Madeleine rose to take her plates to the sink, he remarked, "You are not moving comfortably. I thought at first you were stiff from long sleep, but it gets worse, not better."

"My back hurts a little," she confessed. "It is nothing."

"It is strain, from all you did yesterday. Hardly surprising. Stand up straight…" He moved behind her, running his hands down her back, then over her shoulders and neck. She flinched a little. "I can help you with massage, if you permit me. An arcane skill I acquired during my Eastern travels."

"Yes… thank you…" She was in more pain than she would admit.

Monsieur moved to the cupboard, then returned and put a shawl into her hands. "Loosen the top of your dress, then lie face down on your bed with blankets to your waist, and the shawl over your shoulders."

She did as he told her. There was a moment of silence, and she realised that, true to his word, he had not been watching. "I'm ready," she said softly. He came to the bedside, and gently placed his hands flat on her back. She gave a small exclamation.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No… it's just… your hands are warm…"

He chuckled. "I warmed them at the stove. Cold is your enemy now." He began stroking gently down the line of the big back muscles. "Most people are surprised by the natural cold touch of my skin. It shows how familiar you are with my hands, that the lack of cold surprised you. But in truth, guiding and teaching you, I must have touched you more than anyone in my life…" His voice trailed off into sadness, and Madeleine sought quickly for a way to distract him.

"Monsieur… what is your name?"

"It is Erik." He sounded surprised that she had asked, but not displeased. "You may call me that, if you wish." He had found the strained muscles, and moved his fingers now in small, soft circles, releasing the tension. Madeleine felt the pain drain away, but she also felt her heart beat faster. If he was aware of that, he gave no sign. His hands slid up, under the shawl, to her shoulders. Strong fingers pressed more deeply here, loosening the tight tendons of her neck. "So tell me, Madeleine, how is it that you can waft through my hidden doors which have defeated all comers for years?"

"Perhaps… you designed them to deceive prying eyes. Did you even think about prying fingers? I must touch to find my way. I notice a touch that feels wrong, a brick not properly anchored to its fellows, a waft of air coming through a seemingly solid wall." She talked of tricks she had learned in childhood, to count her steps, to memorise turns, to note textures of floor and walls, to make little rhymes in her head to help her remember a route.

Eventually, to Madeleine's regret, Erik ceased massaging her back, and tucked the shawl about her. "That will do for now. Rest for a few minutes, then get up. The pain will return, but it should be less, and it's better that you move a little."

Between them, they attended to the few housekeeping tasks in the refuge, then both sat and rested. Erik asked Madeleine about her early life, people she had known, things she had done and learned. Again she felt that he wanted to avoid thinking about his own life, and about the drastic change that had come to him. After several hours, though, she could not help asking, "What will happen to your home now? For I think the mob must have found it, shortly after we had gone."

"They will have taken out their anger on my belongings. What they don't steal, they may smash. It's inconvenient, no more. Nothing there was irreplaceable. We can stay here for a few days, until the fuss has died down, then I will go back and see what is left."

"You don't think they will find us here?"

"I doubt if they have anyone as subtle as you to help them. You said we left a wet trail to here, but that will have dried long before they finished ransacking the house. There are no footprints, because there is no dust in the passages. I have always kept them clean."

"You don't think they might use dogs… bloodhounds? A scent trail…"

"Damn!" he exclaimed. "Now I really hope they have no one like you helping them. I did not think of dogs. It's a salutary lesson that those of us who see, pay too little attention to the other senses." He paced back and forth across the room. "I had better go back and see what is happening." He hesitated. "I cannot take you with me. I move faster alone. But I am not sure it's wise to leave you here. If I am delayed… if searchers should come this way… you might be in danger. This room has no second exit."

"There is a way, though… Is it day or night? I have lost track."

"Evening."

"Then let us go to that room where you first found me. It's very close. In the dark, no one will see me from outside. Show me how the grating works, and if there is danger from within, I can escape to the street."

"A poor place to leave you, but… very well. I should not be gone more than an hour or two."

Madeleine demonstrated to Erik that she could quickly unlock and re-lock the refuge door. Across the passage, at the other door, he showed her the catches which held it, and how to release the grating which led to the street. Iron rungs set in the wall made it easy to reach. He had brought some blankets and pillows, that her wait might not be too uncomfortable. Then he set off to see what had happened.

O-O-O

Erik, wearing black, with a hood and gloves, carried a dark-lantern at his waist, but it was unlit. He could move through these passages in pitch darkness, as confidently as Madeleine in a familiar room. But it was not quite the same, for he had first learned these hidden ways with his eyes, with lanterns, and now in his mind he could see them. He took an indirect route back to his house, crawling through air-vents and void spaces, until he could look through a grill, down into his living room. As he had expected, the place had been ransacked, but there seemed to be no systematic hunt for him. A lamp was lit, and one man was in the room, but if he was a guard, he was a poor one, snoring in an armchair with empty wine-bottles scattered about him on the floor.

Erik checked a few other spy-holes, to be sure that the sleeping man was alone, then he slipped through a hidden trap-door and into his bedroom. His first target was the cupboard where he kept masks, wigs, stage make-up and other tools of disguise. It had been opened and the contents scattered, but they were mostly undamaged, and he quickly scooped them into a pillow-case as a convenient carry-sack. Then to the living room, where his silent tread did not disturb the man in the chair. The bookcase with his music manuscripts had been overturned, papers strewn on the floor, but he trod over these unheeding, passing behind the guard and touching a spring in the wall panelling. This secret had not been discovered. Behind the panel was a cache of some money and a few other small, valuable items. These he took, leaving the living room by the back door, as silently as he had come. As an afterthought, he turned to Madeleine's bedroom, and picked up her knitting bag. He had books in the refuge, but she would find time hanging heavy, without some occupation.

Making his way back, he began planning the future. As soon as he could arrange matters, it would be better to get away from the Opera House for a while, until the excitement had been forgotten. He had other hideaways, and this place had too many memories… memories which his mind shied away from. Madeleine… he would have to arrange something for her. There were charitable institutions which looked after the blind and gave them useful employment. He thought for a moment about a woman who could pull a drowning man from the bottom of a lake, and drag him to safety with a baying mob snapping at her heels. Tried to picture her spending her days at a table in a circle of blind people, weaving baskets or hemming pen wipes. Well, she would have to live with it, as he had had to live with the outcast life forced on him.

He looked a little further ahead, to his next moves when Madeleine had gone, but into the empty space she left, his treacherous memory conjured another shape, which would not be dismissed. Struggling to regain control of his own mind, Erik again summoned up the image of Madeleine. What she needed from him, what she could do for him… these were practical thoughts, carrying no emotional burden. It was better to think about Madeleine. Perhaps he should not dismiss her too soon.

O-O-O


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: An Unexpected Kindness – Part 5

Erik summoned Madeleine from her temporary hiding-place, and they both returned to the refuge. When he gave her the knitting bag, she thanked him, without being too effusive. She was more concerned with the injury to his head, still covered by her hasty bandage from yesterday, a strip torn from her petticoat. At first inclined to shrug it off, when he realised that he had bled through the bandage which was now sticking to his skin, he was more willing to sit quietly and let her soak it away with warm water. As she worked patiently at it, she asked him what else he had salvaged from the house, and he explained about the disguise materials.

"I know about the mask which covers one side of your face." With her fingers, she sketched an outline on her own face of Erik's mask.

He raised his eyebrows. "And how do you know about that, since I have not worn it since we came here?"

"Oh... it was some time ago. You left mask and wig on your bedside table. I wondered what they were."

"I remember. But I thought you had not noticed them. They did not appear disturbed."

"I put them back carefully." She detached the last of the bandage from his head, dabbed the water from the swollen area, and left it to dry. "You said yourself... I am a woman, and I can be curious. I broke no rules. Tidying your bedroom was my proper work."

"Well, at any rate, you know what it is I must conceal, if I would not be hunted like an animal. Or... do you know enough about faces, to know how malformed mine is?"

"As a child, I would often ask people I met if I might touch their face, to know what they were like. In the main, they allowed it. Ladies would explain details of their costume. People helped me to understand the world. As I grew older, I found it better not to ask. Children are more tolerated." She reached a hand towards him. "Would you... You know I touched you, when I brought you here unconscious. But I was less concerned with how you looked, than with whether you would die. May I... look at you, in my own way... again?"

He sighed. "Yes, if you must. After all, I was unmasked on stage, in front of hundreds of people, little more than a day ago."

He took her hand and placed it on his furrowed cheek. Using both hands, she traced each side of his face, frowning slightly as she compared the differences. "If your face was seen to be strange on one side, then, for a while, you should make it symmetrical, even if it means making the good side look bad." Her voice was dispassionate, assessing without judging. "This must have been a great burden, and you must be very strong in all ways, to have survived."

Erik felt a kind of fascination. His face had always been a blight on him, a nightmare to others, something to be cursed and hidden away. Madeleine saw it as a simple, practical problem to be dealt with, the way she dealt with her own blindness.

She traced the uneven outline of his lips. "Yes, difficult to disguise," she murmured.

"Indeed. Not a mouth anyone would choose to kiss," he replied bitterly, with the unspoken thought, 'unless for a great reward.'

But Madeleine smiled. "Oh, that sounds like a childhood dare. I never could resist those." To Erik's utter astonishment, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, a gentle and warm caress. "You see?" she went on calmly. "Not difficult at all. But as to disguise... If you have wigs, do you have false beards? A full beard and heavy moustache would cover much of the problem."

"But not all. The deformity extends to nose and cheek."

"A birthmark, perhaps? I have been told of birthmarks. Part of the skin is the wrong colour. I imagine it as if... as if I tore a silk dress, and patched it with sackcloth, or leather... it would be simply wrong."

"Yes, a fair comparison. I shall think along those lines. Thank you, Madeleine. A fresh perspective is helpful. You may leave the graze on my head; it will heal well enough now."

She tidied away the bowl and sponge she had used, remarking, "It is so unfair that they should come hunting you like that, just because they had seen your face."

"They did not become really angry until they found Piangi's body."

There was a long silence from Madeleine, and she slowly turned to face him. "What...?" she whispered.

"Oh, you did not know? You seem to find out everything. I had to remove Piangi. He was in my way."

Madeleine groped to a chair, and slumped into it, her face bloodless. "Could you not have... imprisoned him somewhere, bound him...?"

"But that takes time, and time was precious. Besides, have you not heard the old saying, 'Dead men tell no tales.'? Why so stricken, Madeleine? He was a fool. He did not matter."

"He mattered to himself. To his family and friends." Her mouth was dry, speech difficult. "Well... I have no family or friends. If ever I am in your way, you can be assured that I matter even less than Piangi."

"Madeleine, that is unkind! I have no wish to be rid of you. And if we have to part, I shall make sure to place you somewhere safe."

"And going to this safe place, shall I trip over the bodies of others who were in your way?"

"You're talking nonsense – enough! I am going out now, to patrol the building. There has been no disturbance; you should be safe enough here. If you decide to leave, you know the way. Oh, and if you leave, you will need some money." He slammed a handful of coins on the table, making Madeleine jump at the noise. "If you stay, go to bed. Perhaps you will make more sense in the morning."

Erik strode off down the passage with less than his usual care. Stupid girl! To make such a fuss over a dolt like Piangi. Just as well she did not know about the others… He had thought she understood, being herself an outsider. Because of his accursed face, the whole world was his enemy. The world gave him nothing, and he owed it nothing. He would make his own way, and the rest could stand aside, or beware!

He slipped behind the auditorium and under the stage, paying more attention now, but the place was deserted and silent, with perhaps a single watchman sleeping in some corner. In the orchestra pit, some sheets of music had been left scattered in the confusion. The smaller instruments had been taken away, the larger ones remained. Did the mob think that their ghost could be driven away so easily? Perhaps he should teach them otherwise. Moving to the timpani, he picked up the sticks and held them poised. A thunderous roll should wake things up… but he thought better of it, put down the sticks and moved quietly away. No sense in stirring up more trouble.

Were there other things that he should think twice about? He had always blamed all his misfortunes on his face. Well, tonight, Madeleine had learned his face, almost better than he knew it himself, with no fear, no horror, just friendly interest. She had even kissed him, as though it were a game, pleasant enough but unimportant. But when she learned of the killing… _then _she recoiled from him with sick revulsion. Not his appearance but his deeds condemned him. Christine… Christine had said almost the same, that the distortion in his soul mattered more than his face. And she had kissed him too, but that was understandable, that was the promise she was willing to make, to buy her lover's life. Perhaps he should not have let her go… But what he wanted was for her to return his love, and he knew now that that was impossible. Mere possession of her body could never satisfy his burning need. Nothing could.

Wearily, Erik returned to the refuge, wondering if Madeleine would have fled from him. No, she was there, in bed and pretending to sleep. He had intended, hours ago, to massage her back again, and employ some tricks he knew to make her sleep. That would not happen now; she would never relax under his hands after what had been said. Her strained back would have to heal in its own time. But she had left one candle alight for him, and he wondered if it was an offer of truce. Morning would tell.

Madeleine rose first, and began to prepare their breakfast, setting two places at the table while Erik dressed. But she was unusually clumsy, spilling things or knocking them over. When she dropped a cup to smash on the floor, she gasped and stood still, clasping her hands together.

"Madeleine…" Erik stood close in front of her, and laid a gentle hand on her arm. "I don't like to see you so afraid of me. I am your safe haven, as always."

"I am not… not afraid of you, Erik, not for myself. Afraid perhaps of things you might do, afraid _for_ you if you continue on this path. You have always been so good to me, and I never imagined that, to others…"

"Ah. I begin to see. You thought of me as some martyred saint, bravely bearing my suffering. Now you find that your idol has feet of clay indeed, and it shocks you. But Madeleine, the world is my enemy, with very, very few exceptions. Let the others look out for themselves. Their law does not protect me – why should I be bound by it?"

"But Piangi – a harmless singer. Surely he was no threat to you. To kill such a man for such a reason… that is not only a crime, it is unjust. I know injustice has been heaped upon you, and if you took revenge on the perpetrators, I could understand. But to slaughter the weak, when you are so strong… I thought you more of a man than that."

A blush tinted Erik's pale cheeks, and he was glad that she could not see it. "Well, it is done. Many things were done that day, that I might do differently now, but we get no second chances. But you, Madeleine. What will you do now? Soon I will leave this place and go elsewhere. If you wish to come with me, you could be useful to me, in more ways than just as a maid. If you do not, then I promise I will find a safe home for you. Come with me willingly, or not at all."

Madeleine bowed her head in thought, for a long time. Then she straightened up, and clasped Erik's hand in both her own. "The world is not perfect, nor I, nor you. We must go on. While I can be of use, I will stay with you."

O-O-O

They spent the day together in the refuge, Madeleine knitting, Erik reading, or writing letters. Madeleine wondered how she could have been so impudent as to kiss him yesterday. But his words had been such an opening… she could not resist the temptation. At any rate, that was an honest kiss, not like the stolen one when he lay unconscious. And… he was undoubtedly surprised by it, but not repelled. She had once thought herself soiled beyond redemption, by what had happened in her past, and she had believed that he thought so, too. Perhaps, after all, time could wash away the contamination.

When her thoughts returned from yesterday to the present, Madeleine noticed something strange. Usually, when Erik was engaged in some quiet task, he would hum, or sing softly to himself, or perhaps his fingers would tap out some intricate rhythm on the table. Today, she heard none of that, nor had she since they were in the refuge. Once she herself, absent-mindedly, began to hum the little melody he had written for her. He said immediately, "Madeleine, would you stop that, please." The words had no anger or stress, but they compelled obedience. Madeleine was worried then. She knew that giving up Christine had torn the heart out of him, however much he tried to hide that from himself and from her. But surely it could not have torn the music out of him? If that were so, what reason would he have to go on living?

When darkness veiled the world outside, he went to meet an agent of his, a man whom Madeleine had met when he brought supplies to the house by the lake. Returning after a short while, he seemed satisfied.

"I have put matters in train. There is an apartment which I rent, as a safe retreat. It has been empty for a while, but I have sent Jacques to open it and provision it. This time tomorrow, we can remove there, and be a little less confined than here. When we go, take everything which you might want, for I do not expect to return here."

"It is almost magical, the way you arrange matters. People appear, and do your bidding. You conjure homes out of nowhere."

"Ah, but the magic wand is money. Money is power. When I journeyed in the East, I… invented toys for people. Expensive toys, for powerful people." He paused. "Sometimes, unpleasant toys, for unpleasant people. But I was always well paid, and I wasted none of it. When I came back to France, I lodged my money in banks, in safe investments, some in cash, hidden here and there. And I have added to my fortune since then. I can buy what I need, I can hire people to run my errands. I can threaten my agents with dire retribution, if they betray me. But there are times when it would be useful to have someone more trustworthy to conduct business on my behalf. This is what I had in mind for you. We could get you a stylish walking-dress and accoutrements, present you as a lady of a well-to-do family; perhaps wife or daughter to a banker, a doctor, something of that sort. I would hire a maid – no, better, a footman – to escort you and be your eyes. For transactions which must be done in daylight, face-to-face, you could represent me. Would you do that?"

"Gladly, to the best of my ability. Remember that I have little experience of business matters."

"Yes. I have no specific tasks in mind for now, but I can recall occasions when someone like you could have been very useful. We shall see what transpires."

O-O-O


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: An Unexpected Kindness – Part 6

The shop sold mainly clocks, with some other decorative objects; vases, glass sculptures and the like. It was elegant without being over-stated. One afternoon, the manager called his recently-appointed assistant to the office.

"Mademoiselle Duval has an appointment today. You will find her… interesting."

"Does she buy, or sell?" asked the assistant.

"Sells. Her brother makes automata, excellent ones, but he rarely comes here himself. She does business for him. The horse-race set on display was made by him."

"Intriguing. However many times the horses race, I can never anticipate which will win."

"Yes. Amusing, beautiful, and exclusive. That is why his pieces sell for thousands of francs."

The lady was prompt to her time. She was neatly dressed in a gown of wine-red, and decorously escorted by a footman in tail-coat and knee-breeches. But the assistant was startled to see a band of the same wine-red fabric across her eyes. She rested one hand lightly on the sleeve of the footman; when he guided her to a chair, she felt for it and seated herself with the accustomed ease of the long-blind. She greeted the manager by name, and was introduced to his assistant. The footman stood attentively behind her chair.

"Well, Mademoiselle, you have something for us today?"

"Certainly. What do you think of this?" From a basket on her arm, she produced a decorated box, about the size of a tea caddy. Checking with her hand that the desk before her had clear space, she put the box there, slid a key into the base and wound the clockwork mechanism. Then she turned a knob on the top, and sat back.

The top and sides of the box folded back, revealing a little bird-cage, apparently empty. But a tiny, jewelled head peeped out of a nest-box in the corner. With a cheep, the bird moved out on to its perch, flipped wings and tail, then opened its beak and poured out a sweet trill. It sang for a short time, then its voice seemed to grow weaker, and died away. The bird moved again, to a water-bowl, dipped its head and appeared to drink. Moving back to its perch it sang again, the full, joyful song of a soaring lark. As it sang, miniature flowers grew out of the floor of the cage. Finally, the last liquid notes died away, and the bird slid back into its box.

"Charming!" exclaimed the manager.

"When you close the outer case," explained the lady, "the flowers retreat into the base, ready for the next time. My brother says that this is somewhat less complicated than the horse-race, and it is priced accordingly, at seven hundred francs."

The assistant expected some haggling, but the price was accepted immediately. He was rather distracted because he had just noticed a birthmark staining the skin of the lady's forehead and temple, almost the same colour as the eye-band, and somewhat disguised by it. A cheque was brought, and a receipt prepared. The footman looked at the papers, and murmured, "Correct, Mademoiselle." The manager dipped a pen in the inkwell and placed it in the lady's hand, using a finger of his other hand to indicate the space where her signature was required. She wrote her name, rather untidily, and the manager blotted it. Business concluded, farewells were said and the lady departed with her attendant.

"Interesting indeed," remarked the assistant to the manager. "Blind… and also birthmarked. Unfortunate."

"The misfortune runs in the family. I met the brother once. He can see, although there is something strange about his eyes, but he is also birthmarked, much worse. He wears a beard to hide some of it. But why should we care what he looks like, when he can produce such exquisite work? We shall put it on display tomorrow, and the price is fifteen hundred francs. Oh, and if you ever deal with her, do not try to haggle. They set fair prices, and we do not want to lose them to another store."

O-O-O

Madeleine paid the cheque into the bank, then went home to the apartment. At the door, she thanked and dismissed the footman, who was engaged by the day whenever she needed escort. The agency paid his wages, but she gave him a generous tip. He was used to her needs, and served her well.

When they moved here from the Opera House, after some discussion, they decided to pose as brother and sister. Erik accepted Madeleine's suggestion that a combination of beard and birthmark could disguise his face, without reminding people of the Phantom. It was Madeleine's idea that she wear a birthmark too, to imply that it was a family trait. Whenever she needed to go out, he would carefully paint a mark on her face with a skin-dye which looked real, and would survive the occasional shower of rain. Repeated washing would eventually remove it, or he could clean it off with a spirit rub.

There was a workroom where Erik kept an assortment of tools for fine metalwork. He enjoyed the challenge of making the little mechanical toys, and although he did not need the money, he accepted it as a measure of the worth of his work. His automata made natural sounds like birdsong, hoofbeats or ocean waves, but none of them had included a more conventional musical box. There was a piano in the living room, but to Madeleine's sorrow, it was kept locked. Not that she minded for herself, but for Erik to live without music seemed like a bird with clipped wings. 'Controlled,' she had thought him, when they first met. But this was control gone mad, the difference between a tree growing naturally straight and one twisted to contorted shapes by the gardener's art. She wished he could choose to release the control; if it ever snapped, she feared for the consequences.

Madeleine changed out of the wine-red costume and into a plain house-dress, brushing and sponging the more elaborate outfit before hanging it up. Erik would have let her buy a more expensive wardrobe if she wished, but she had little interest in such things, and she could tell by his tone that he did not much mind what she wore. They employed a charwoman now, who came in the mornings to do the heavier cleaning, but Madeleine continued to look after clothes for both of them. She needed some employment, preferably one that would let her hands stay a ladylike white, not stained by coal or black-lead. The charwoman had once been allowed to see Erik in his full disguise of false beard, wig, and birthmark. He then told her that, to hide the unpleasant sight, he would wear a full-face hooded mask when she came. That spared him the task of donning his disguise every day, and the same method was used for delivery men who brought provisions to the apartment.

After she had changed, she went through to the living room and took up an unfinished rug which she was making. Half an hour later, Erik came in from his workroom and greeted her. "Did Chemas like the song bird?"

"Of course. I think the little flowers appealed to him, too."

"I was thinking of a garden scene, which would start in spring, then progress through summer, autumn and winter. Or perhaps summer to summer."

"Ending in winter would make it feel right to close the box. Perhaps for summer, the flowers could exude perfume."

"Yes, that would be effective. But it would need some movement. A bird, an animal, perhaps flowing water. I shall give it thought."

Their lives were pleasant. Madeleine had her handicrafts, Erik his workroom. When they chose to spend time together, it was companionable, undemanding. Once, she made a passing, regretful comment about some Braille books which she had had when she lived with her mother. Such books were expensive, but Erik immediately asked what she would like, and bought everything on her modest list. He also provided the slate-and-stylus which let her write Braille on plain paper, and asked her to teach him the system, so that they could write to one another if the need arose. Madeleine enjoyed being teacher instead of pupil, but was awe-struck by the speed with which he learned.

But Madeleine had lurking worries. Erik sometimes had visitors, men who came after dark, and had long discussions with him, from which Madeleine was excluded. There were times when he went out at night, on errands that he never discussed. She suspected that he was in contact with the city's criminal fraternity, and she wondered what schemes he might be involved with. "Money is power," he had once told her, and although he seemed to be rich, yet perhaps he always felt the need for more, to increase his power or even his safety. Certainly he had no regular income, no landed estates or profitable business to fall back on.

On one occasion, he answered her unspoken thoughts. "If there are matters which I do not explain to you, it is because you do not need to know. But, Madeleine, you once pointed out to me the difference between actions which are merely illegal, and those which are unjust. I remember that; it seems I never had a conscience, until you undertook that role. If it gives you any comfort, since then I have avoided perpetrating injustice." And that did give her some comfort.

O-O-O

On one of her "outdoor" days, Madeleine and her escort had finished the errands, and stopped at a café for a glass of wine. The day was pleasant and sunny, but suddenly for Madeleine it turned chill. An overheard conversation informed her that, this very day, Mademoiselle Christine Daaé was being married to the Vicomte de Chagny. The footman, concerned at her sudden pallor, asked if she were quite well. She admitted to a little faintness, and he escorted her home. A delivery boy arrived at the same time with a box of supplies from the shop, and the footman brought it inside before leaving her. Madeleine tried to absorb herself in her knitting, dreading her next encounter with Erik. But a little later, she heard his wordless moan of pain from the workroom. The newspaper! – the story must have been printed there. She made her way tentatively into the hall, where he met her. "You knew?" he asked her sharply.

"I heard, on the street."

"And you did not tell me?"

"Why should I be the one to cause you pain? You were bound to find out. And… you knew this must happen, when you gave her her freedom. This hurts you because you love her, but, loving her, you had to free her…"

"Stop trying to be reasonable, damn you! This is not about reason. It is... it is…" His voice sank to a menacing hiss. "I will show you what this is about!"

She felt her wrist seized, and he pulled her from the hall to his bedroom. There were no more words, just his rasping breath as he pushed her to the bed and started fumbling with her clothing. Madeleine lay passive, neither fighting nor helping him. She felt sure that, now, he needed her to be Christine. No action of Madeleine's could be allowed to intrude.

It was a fierce mating, a blaze of emotion for him, patient endurance for her. When it was over, he turned away from her, curling himself into a tight ball. For a few minutes there was only his harsh breathing, then he began to sob, like a heartbroken child, without dignity or restraint. Madeleine pulled a cover over both of them, and waited for his grief to subside. Finally he grew quiet, although she knew he was not sleeping. She slipped to the bathroom, came back with sponge and towel, and tenderly wiped his face clean and dry. By the time she had done, she was growing cold, for she had not stopped to dress. Erik took her hand, with gentleness, drew her down beside him, and covered her.

"How… how can you be so kind to me, after what I did? You who have always been here for me… And I have treated you as badly as… as those men who first drove you to take shelter with me."

"No." She thought for a moment. "No, you are not like them. They laughed at my pain. There was no cruelty in you, even in your passion. And… with them, I was helpless. With you… Erik, I could have stopped you, with a word."

"I believe… yes, I believe you could have. Had you protested, struggled… the madness in me was not so great as to ignore that. Yes, Madeleine, you could have stopped me with a word. Why, then, was that word not spoken?"

She sighed. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"Oh, my cautious little friend, who fears dangerous questions, who once said that questioning was like seeking to learn about fire by putting your hand into it. I would like you to explain, and I do not believe the answer will burn me."

"Very well. I did not stop you, because I wanted this union. I love you, Erik. Have loved you, and desired you, for a long time."

He drew a long breath, but was slow to reply. "Burned, after all. That… was not the answer I expected."

"You did not realise I love you? I thought I was the blind one… Understand, though, I do not expect you to return my love. I know your heart is given elsewhere. But what answer did you expect?"

"Oh… something about my pain, and your pity for my weakness."

"I have never thought you weak, but I understand your pain, a little. We both love, without being loved in return. But I am more fortunate than you. I can be near you, can be useful to you. I can count you as my friend."

"Yes… yes, we are friends, Madeleine, and I value that friendship. But if we are to stay friends, then what we have shared today… cannot continue. We cannot live as lovers. That would be a lie, on my part if not yours, and I do not wish to poison our friendship with lies."

"I understand. If you prefer, we can pretend that this never happened. Only – do not ask me to forget."

"No. And how could I forget that you saved my sanity, perhaps my life? For the deceiving dream is over now, the dream that held my mind in chains. From tomorrow, you and I return to what we were before. But… on this one day, in this one place… may I make you a gift, in recompense for the gift you have given me?" He touched her shoulder, then softly ran his hand down her side, to her waist. "This time for your pleasure, as well as mine? If it would please you?"

For a moment, Madeleine's breath paused. Then she whispered, "Yes… it would…"

If Erik was unpractised in the arts of love, he was observant, and a quick learner. He woke passions in Madeleine that she had never known, and left her with a fulfilment she had never imagined. Sleep drowned her, deeper than the ocean.

When Madeleine woke, it was to hear a sound of such beauty that she wept for joy. Erik was playing the piano.

O-O-O


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7: An Unexpected Kindness – Part 7

All the same, their lives could not feel quite as they did before. Soon it became clear that both were inclined for change, and they moved out of the apartment and out of the city, taking a small house on the outskirts of a market town. The house was surrounded by wall and trees, with a secluded garden, rather overgrown.

As before, they employed a servant to come in for a few hours daily, but when she had gone, Erik and Madeleine had house and garden to themselves. It was a novelty to be able to stroll in the open air, unobserved and unafraid, or to sit at peace on the veranda. From somewhere in the neighbourhood, a cat moved in, and liked them enough to stay, happy to trade purrs for a lap to sit on, a stroking hand. Madeleine wondered if Erik would grow bored with this sedate existence, but it seemed that, after a life of tension and strain, the opportunity to relax was a luxury which did not pall.

Erik returned to his music, composing now for pay, accepting commissions via an agent. There was demand for instructional music for conservatoires, performance music for music halls, exclusive virtuoso pieces for professional soloists. Any of this he could write, with little effort. He avoided opera. The music he produced was of high quality, but Madeleine felt that he treated the writing as casually as she treated doing laundry. Occasionally, though, some piece would catch his imagination, to be worked more carefully and kept in his private library, not sold on. He had almost given up making his clockwork toys, unless an idea appealed to him, but he did make a musical box for Madeleine. It played her own melody, the one which he had written for her, and several other tunes which she liked.

But the time came when Erik had another midnight visitor, and Madeleine began to worry. She had so hoped that shadow dealings had been left behind in the city. Next day, he noticed that she seemed tense and withdrawn.

"Are you worried that I have business with people who move in darkness?"

"We talked once about the difference between crime and injustice. You told me that you had forsworn injustice… but that seems to say that you have not given up crime. I remember you saying, 'Money is power.' I worry about what you might do to make your fortune secure. I worry that your actions may rebound and harm you. Do we really need more money? Is it so expensive to live here? We could give up the servant… you know I am capable of doing her work."

He laughed. "Oh, Madeleine…" Taking her hand, he drew her to sit beside him on the sofa. "I know full well how hard you can work, and no, we are not so poor as that. In fact… something I was going to explain to you. If you ever find yourself alone here, and cannot contact me…" Her hand tightened on his. "No, I have no plans to leave, but sometimes unplanned things can happen. In my desk, in the middle drawer on the right, you will find a folder of papers. Some in Braille for you, some in script to show others. I have deposited a sum of money in a safe investment, in your name. A solicitor in town has the management of it. If you wished, you could withdraw it all and spend it. But left alone, it will pay an income, enough for you to live on, if we are ever separated.

"However, I suppose it has become a habit with me, to look for opportunities. I have a history of demanding money from the rich, with threats of disaster if I am not paid. The word is extortion. An ugly word, but then…" He shrugged. "That man who came was a messenger, nothing more. I have contacts who gather information for me. Twice, while we were in Paris, I discovered things about professional criminals – one a thief, one a hired assassin. I gave them a simple choice; pay me, and I would hand the evidence back to them, or refuse, and see it laid with the police. They paid."

"Surely a dangerous game?"

"Oh, I am very careful. I have a lifetime of training. And, to be honest, the game has grown a little tiresome. I shall maintain contact with my informants, because… well, because I like to know what is happening. But now I have this home, my music, your companionship… I shall not seek danger, not if it troubles you. Come, let us walk in the garden. I think it is time we replanted the flower beds. What flowers do you like, that have a pleasant perfume…?"

O-O-O

That messenger, or another, came at irregular intervals, and no disasters followed. But after one such visit, Erik seemed worried. Madeleine heard him pacing the living room, far into the night. Eventually, she pulled on a robe and went down to him.

He seemed surprised. "Oh – was I keeping you awake? I'm sorry." But he did not sound sorry, simply preoccupied.

"What is it? What news has upset you so?"

"Nothing. Well, something, I suppose, but it need not concern you."

"But it concerns you. Please tell me."

"Oh, very well. A rumour, that's all. A number of foreign dignitaries are visiting France, for a special conference. Apart from the state occasions, several important people will attend a private dinner party. The rumour is that a group of disaffected citizens will attempt some outrage – a murder, a kidnapping, something of that sort."

Madeleine frowned. "But that is political. I have never known you take an interest in politics before. Why was this information brought to you?"

There was a long pause, and he paced the floor several times before answering. "Because the Chagnys are among the guests. Because I have asked for any news concerning them."

It was Madeleine's turn to pause. "I see. Christine. How long have you been spying on her?"

"It's not spying! I have never been near her. I don't want to hound or distress her. Only… I need to know that she is well, happy, safe. My informants pass on any news concerning her."

"I thought… I thought that you had let her go."

"I did. Is it so wrong to want news of her?"

"But does this news make you happy? She made her choice, and it was not you. To keep reminding yourself of that… it seems to me like a drug addict returning to a craving that can never be satisfied. Surely if you could only forget her – "

"You speak like a fool!" He stopped pacing and stood in front of her. "What do you know of love? You once claimed that you loved me. Well then, teach me how to forget love. Teach me to put the past behind me. Pack your things and leave me – you have the means to do it. Or else, I will go, and leave this house to you. Let us part, and when you have forgotten me, then perhaps I will know how to forget Christine."

Madeleine groped her way clumsily to a chair, and bowed her head into her hands, tears spilling down her face. "I could not… I could not forget you. I will never leave you of my own accord. You might send me away… but still I could never forget you."

"Then stop preaching what you cannot practise!" He strode out of the room, slamming the door.

Madeleine woke next day to find the house empty. She prowled from room to room, finding no message. The charwoman came, did her work, and left. Finally, she heard Erik's step on the path – and that was a courtesy to her. He could walk silently when he chose; if he paced to be heard, it was for her sake. She waited for him in the hall.

"I'm sorry," she said as soon as he came in. "I did not understand… until you made me understand."

"And I am sorry, too," he replied. "Because when you likened me to a drug addict, you were very close to the truth. It would be better if I could forget… but it is beyond my power."

"And this conspiracy… what must be done about that? Do you think the Chagnys are at risk?"

"They are not important enough to be a target, but when bullets fly, anyone near may suffer. I have been to Paris this morning, setting things in motion." Concerned, Madeleine stepped nearer to him and ran her hand over his face. He was in his full disguise of wig, beard, and tinted spectacles, but even so, for him to be out in daylight was to risk drawing unwanted attention.

Erik understood why she had touched him, and did not comment. "The evidence is slight, but it has been gathered and laid before the police. The group should be arrested before the day of the dinner party. If there is a problem, at least they have been warned and can cancel the event."

The next few days were tense, but it seemed that all had been done which could be done. But the day of the party brought Erik's courier again. This time, Madeleine was not excluded from the conference.

"The police have made a hash of it," complained the messenger. "There was another dissident group with some scheme, a horde of amateurs with no hope of succeeding. The information we left was thought to be about them. They were rounded up, but the people we know of escaped. The dinner party is still on, and it is meant to be 'informal,' so police presence will be slight and unobtrusive."

"Damn! We must intervene. Have you found out any more of their plan?"

"No… but this party, twenty or thirty guests, is large for the house. They are hiring extra staff."

"Oh, God. So easy to place their man inside, so impossible to know which man, until the action starts."

"Man or woman," put in Madeleine.

"Yes, true, it is not safe to make assumptions. Violence is more often committed by men, but some women are capable of fanaticism."

"Probably man," the messenger suggested. "Female staff are more likely to be in the kitchen. A footman or waiter can get closer to the guests."

"True. Well, I must go to Paris, to see what may be done." He glanced at the clock. "There is a train within the hour. Girard, go ahead to the station and buy tickets, while I change. And we will need a carriage to meet us in Paris. Wire ahead and arrange it. A stylish carriage and pair – we are going to a wealthy district. We must not look out of place, and arouse suspicion."

"May I come?" Madeleine asked in a low voice.

"Good idea," Girard put in. "A gentleman with a lady on his arm looks more innocent than one alone. A blind lady tapping her way with a cane could never be suspected of anything."

"Very well. But, Madeleine, if I have to get into the house, you must wait with Girard in the carriage. I may need to leave in haste."

"I shall do as you say. Should we wear the matching birthmarks, pass as brother and sister?"

"No – time presses. Put on your dress with the velvet trim. Dark blue is respectable enough. I shall use the smoother wig and beard. Girard, go now, tickets for three."

O-O-O

The home of the Marquis who hosted the dinner party was a grand house in a street of grand houses. Carriage after carriage pulled up at the door, disgorged splendidly-dressed occupants, then drove on to a nearby stable yard to wait out the evening. One carriage did not stop, but pulled out into the road and drove past the others at a walk.

"Did you see the plain-clothes policeman supposed to be on guard?" growled Girard. "Too busy gawking at the guests. Useless. What do we pay our taxes for?"

"When did you ever pay taxes, Girard?" murmured Erik, his attention on the street. Madeleine stifled a nervous giggle. Erik directed the coachman round the next turning and told him to stop. "Mademoiselle and I are going to walk along the mews behind the row of houses. It should take about five minutes. I want you to drive round the block and meet us at the other end." They alighted, and the carriage drove away.

"Do we saunter, or walk briskly?" Madeleine asked, as Erik drew her hand through his arm.

"Briskly, I think, but not too hurried. I need a look at the back of the house." When he came level with it, he paused. "No one in sight. Fortunately, there are too many guests to leave the carriages here. They engaged space elsewhere. I just need a moment…"

"Should I tie my shoelace, as an excuse to stop?" asked Madeleine.

"Yes, good. Stay close against the wall here." He left her, but was back within a minute. "This will work. There is a place where I can easily get over the garden wall, and a drainpipe giving access to an upstairs window." Madeleine shivered. "Don't worry. It's much easier than some of the hidden ways I used around the Opera House." Madeleine did worry, but this was his mission, and she could not interfere.

They met their carriage. Inside, Erik shed his black coat, and covered shirt and waistcoat with a black jersey. He rolled the coat into a small haversack, already packed with a few useful things. "I hope to find that all is well, and I can slip out the way I came. If I have to leave by the door, I shall wear the coat, and try to look like a waiter or valet. Take the carriage back to the main street, and drive slowly up and down. There is traffic. You should not be noticed, but if you are questioned, then you are waiting for someone who is late, and walking the horses to keep them warm. Girard, look after Mademoiselle. You'll be well paid for this night's work."

"Erik – " Madeleine reached a hand towards him. "Be careful."

He pressed her hand. "Always. I shall see you later." He slipped silently away.

O-O-O

Inside the house, the Marquis's glittering guests had gathered for drinks in the drawing room, before moving into the dining room. As they were being seated at the long table, a waiter at the far end of the room, who appeared to be dealing with a bottle of champagne, suddenly produced a pistol from an empty ice-bucket, turned to face the table and fired a shot into the ceiling. "Silence! No one move!" There were cries of protest, and a woman screamed. "Quiet! Everybody keep still and there'll only be one death here. Get stupid, and there'll be more." He raised the gun, tracking it along the line of seated figures.

From the door came a surge of black-clad movement. The gunman whirled and let off a shot, but the moving figure leapt swiftly to the sideboard, then to the table. He scattered dishes and kicked a bowl of flowers into the gunman's face, spoiling his aim. Throwing himself almost on to the muzzle of the gun, he bowled over the gunman, whose weapon spun out of his hand. A loop of cord was thrown over the gunman's head and tightened on his throat. He clawed ineffectually at it.

"Get out!" Erik shouted to the table at large. "There may be more of them. Get out of this room, and stay away from windows." Some of the diners sat frozen, but others rose quickly and urged their neighbours back to the door. Christine stumbled to her feet, bewildered. The face of the stranger meant nothing to her, but the movement, the voice – they tugged at a memory. Then Raoul's arm was round her, pushing her quickly out of the room, and the moment was lost in another threat. With a crash, something heavy was thrown through the front window into the room. Erik saw a section of metal pipe land on the floor, a wisp of smoke escaping from one end. Leaving the throttled gunman, he seized the pipe and hurled it back through the window. It exploded in the air outside, shattering the window completely, blasting Erik off his feet and into a tangle of furniture, amidst a hail of flying glass and debris.

The Marquis came cautiously into the dining room, backed by some of his own servants, and a police officer. There was confused noise from the street, the sound of running feet and galloping horses, but within the smoke-hazed room, all was now quiet. The gunman was moving feebly, trying to loosen the cord on his throat. The servants quickly overpowered him, while the policeman handcuffed him.

"He was aiming for the Prince," said the Marquis. "If he had succeeded – unthinkable. It could have meant war. But who is our rescuer here?" Erik lay unconscious in the wreckage. "Summon a doctor, quickly. We owe this man a debt. He must be cared for."

"He's wearing a disguise," noted the policeman.

"I dare say he can explain, if we don't let him bleed to death while we discuss it." A maid volunteered the information that he seemed to have been hiding in the cloakroom behind the stairs. At the first gunshot, he had leapt for the dining room.

Erik's inert body was eased on to a blanket, and carried to a couch in a small adjacent room. His face and hands were bloody from glass cuts, and it soon became clear that one of his legs was broken. The doctor came, checked his pulse and breathing, and pronounced him not in immediate danger. "But that leg will have to be set and splinted, and I may as well do that while he is unconscious. My assistant can attend to the cuts and bruises of your other guests. What about the other man who was near the explosion?"

"The police have him in custody. Their medical man can see to him. The man who threw the bomb from the street… they did not catch him."

"I see this one is wearing a wig and false beard. They may have saved him some damage from flying glass. Those cuts on cheek and forehead are shallow. His eyes escaped. But he has taken a hard blow to the head. Let us see…" He eased off the wig, and gasped at the ravaged skull beneath. "Dear God… but this is old, maybe even since birth. Here, on the other side of his head – this is the knock that has concussed him." His fingers explored gently. "I do not think there is a fracture. We will know more when he wakes up. Meanwhile, that leg…"

Erik felt consciousness seeping back, in a wash of pain. There were voices around… he was trapped, then… but there was something important… As he tried to speak, those around him leaned to catch his words. "What was that? Something about a lady?"

He tried again. "In the street… a carriage… Lady in a blue dress… she is blind. The bomb… I must know. Please… find her. Madeleine Duval…"

The Marquis spoke to a footman, then turned back to Erik. "I have sent to enquire for her. But now, please accept my thanks, although that is too poor a word. I do not know who you are, but undoubtedly that assassin wanted to kill the Prince. Thanks to you, he and all my guests have escaped."

Erik tried to grasp what was happening. The other guests… that should mean something… But a single thought possessed him. "The lady in the carriage… she was in the street… I threw the bomb into the street. If she was near…"

"I have men looking for her. She will be found. But be assured, there are no reports of injuries in the street. Please rest now… excuse me, I have things to see to."

The house seemed swarming with police, now that the danger was over. The guests, who had been hustled into a rear sitting room, were leaving, a few at a time, as their carriages were brought up. The Prince who had been the target was clearly still shaken, but carried himself with dignity. The President of France himself had just arrived, to try to soothe the offended royal feelings. Through this bustle, a footman led Madeleine straight to the room where Erik lay.

"Madeleine! Are you all right?" As she was brought to the couch, he seized her hand, fully conscious now. The footman placed a chair for her.

"Yes, yes. When the explosion came, the horses bolted. It took the driver a little time to stop them and come back. I was thrown to the floor of the carriage. A few bruises, no more. But you, Erik… they told me you are badly hurt…" She reached towards him, uncertain how to touch him without causing more injury.

"A broken leg, a bump on the head. Don't touch my face, it is bloody, but no great harm done. Now you are safe, all is well…"

"And… the others here…?" With people listening, Madeleine feared to say too much. "I heard shots…"

"Oh… they told me that no one was hurt. The gunman is taken, but the bomber was too fast for them. His role must have been to act if the gunman was foiled. That would have been a blood-bath. As Girard said, a poor showing by the police. My concern now is how to arrange our departure." He sounded tired, now that his anxiety about Madeleine was relieved.

The doctor came into the room in time to hear these words. "You should not plan on leaving yet, my friend. You are concussed, and you will not walk on that leg for weeks. The Marquis is arranging to have a bed and other necessities brought to this room for you."

"There is no need. I have a home to go to…"

"Not tonight," the doctor replied firmly. "Tomorrow, if you insist, we shall have you conveyed home."

There were voices at the door, as the Marquis and the President entered together. "Here is our mysterious saviour," explained the Marquis. "And, I see, the lady he was so concerned for. I do not know who he is, but I saw him deflect a murderous attack on the Prince, and with his own hands he threw away the bomb that would have destroyed everyone in the room. But for him, I think that France might very soon have been at war."

The President came forward. "Monsieur, France owes you a great debt of gratitude. If there is anything that France can give you as a reward, I beg that you will ask it now."

Erik closed his eyes wearily. "My burden has been with me since my birth. I do not think that even France can lift it."

But Madeleine put in quickly, "No, Erik. There is something that France could do for you, that would lift a great burden from you."

"I am delighted to hear it, Madame," said the President. "May I ask who you are, that you seem to know our hero so well?"

Somewhere in the confusion, Madeleine had lost her eye-band. Now she turned her blind eyes full on the President. Experience had taught her that this made people uneasy, but it also made them pay heed to her. "I am his friend," she replied proudly. "Make of that what you will."

"I… understand."

"I suspect that you do not," countered Erik, his attention now on Madeleine. "But she is, and for a long time has been, my one true friend. She sees more clearly than many of us who have eyes. Anything she wishes to say is worth hearing."

The President caught the implication. Not a mistress then, or at least, not only that. "You have my attention, Madame. What can we do for this gentleman, to show his country's gratitude?"

"Give him a new name, and a new beginning. A clean slate, with the past wiped out." Her mind groped for the unfamiliar word. "Amnesty."

The President drew a sharp breath, then paused for thought. "I think we must be sure we all understand what is being discussed here. And… I think we should talk about this in private." He turned to the other people, hovering politely in the background. "Gentlemen, would you have the goodness to leave us alone for a few minutes?" The others filed out, and closed the door. "Madame… Monsieur… Amnesty is usually requested for someone whose past contains crimes which have never been charged. It is very rarely granted. Society does not wish to have known or suspected criminals set free, perhaps to pursue a further life of crime."

But part of his mind was thinking that the obvious reward, the Légion d'Honneur,would involve publicity, and the less said in public about this affair, the better. Amnesty was a matter of paperwork which could be done discreetly. Anyone inclined to dredge up the past could be hushed, on grounds of national security. And, after all, this man had just risked his own life to prevent a crime, not to commit one. If this was the price of his silence, it might well be worth paying.

"I do not deny that my past contains dark episodes," replied Erik. "And you should be glad of it. For if I had not known… the people whom I do know… I would never have heard of tonight's plot, and the assassins would have had their way."

"A telling point," murmured the President.

"Monsieur… you see my head is uncovered. This is part of what has shaped my history. Forgive me if I do not remove the beard. It is rather firmly attached." Erik turned to give the President a full view of his misshapen skull. "You may take my word that my face is equally distorted, beyond what you see. This made me an outcast. Society had no place for me, and in turn I had no use for society and its laws. But now… lately… I have found a place where I am happy. To feel I could remain there safely, with no fear of the past coming back to condemn me… that would indeed be a great gift."

"And could I trust that a clean record would remain clean? That I would not be releasing a danger to others?"

"This lady, who is indeed my friend, has also served as my conscience. The first time she learned of an evil deed of mine, she said, 'I thought you more of a man than that.' That shamed me, perhaps the first time in my life I had known shame. Such deeds as that, I have not repeated, not wishing to shame myself again. If I had a fresh start, an unsullied name… I would bestow that name upon her, if she would accept it. Madeleine, if I can put the past – put all of the past – behind me, will you be my wife, and help me keep that name unsullied?"

Too moved to speak, Madeleine stooped and kissed him. The President looked on benignly, but the kiss seemed destined to last a long time. "Then let us take that as settled. I shall instruct my secretary to make the necessary arrangements. I trust I may expect an invitation to the wedding?" But no answer was forthcoming, so he quietly left the room.

o.o.o End of "Blind Love part 1 – An Unexpeced Kindness" o.o.o

* * *

_**Author's note:** Originally, I intended the story of Erik and Madeleine to end here. But soon I started wondering about what would happen next. How would they manage, until Erik's broken leg mended? Would they really get married? And the story grew._

_Once I get my notes in order, I'll start posting the next episode. Any feedback would be much appreciated._


	8. Chapter 8

_**Author's note**: Although this starts a new section of the story arc, it picks up exactly where the previous one left off, with Erik and Madeleine coming up for air after that kiss…_

* * *

Chapter 8: A Voice from the Past – Part 1

"He said yes," Madeleine said eventually, after the President had gone.

"He did," agreed Erik. "You know, romantic novels would say that, when we were kissing, we should not have noticed anything else in the world."

"Perhaps we were not kissing properly. Do we need more practice?"

"Undoubtedly. But perhaps somewhere more private than here. Madeleine, you never cease to astonish me. I would never have dreamed of asking for amnesty."

"Oh, I dream of many things. That you would be free… that you would ask me to marry you… I hardly expected both to come true at once."

"You know I was knocked out by the explosion. When I came to myself… the one thought in my mind was that you were in the street, where I had thrown the bomb. Nothing else… That taught me to see myself. Taught me that the past, after all, can be left in the past. You are my present… and my future."

There was a discreet knock, and the Marquis entered, to find Madeleine seated sedately beside Erik, clasping his hand.

"Monsieur… Mademoiselle… the President has explained matters to me. You are both, of course, my most honoured guests. The doctor tells me that Monsieur expressed a wish to leave. If that is what you want, then we shall arrange it. But I hope I can persuade you to follow the doctor's advice and rest here, at least for tonight. Mademoiselle, please accept my word that your fiancé looks very ill. To be so near an explosion is a bad shock to the system." Madeleine knew it already. She could feel the fine tremors in Erik's hand, and his skin had a clammy texture, different from his usual dry coolness.

Erik sighed. "Very well. Madeleine, would you find if that doctor has some surgical spirit in his bag? I need to remove this – " he touched Madeleine's hand to the beard. "If we speak of shocks to the system, let Monsieur le Marquis see just what he is harbouring. Monsieur, I left a grey canvas bag concealed in the cloakroom behind your staircase. Perhaps someone could bring it to me."

When Madeleine had secured a bottle of spirit and bowls of warm water, she set about cleaning away the glue which held Erik's beard in place. Once it was removed, she wiped the dried blood from around the cuts on his face. The doctor watched with interest. "You have a delicate touch, Mademoiselle. Monsieur, this one cut on your cheekbone would be the better for a stitch or two. It is not necessary for the others. Perhaps a little iodine…"

"Stitch if you want to," Erik agreed tiredly. "But no iodine. You would paint a clown's mask on a demon's face. If the cuts give trouble later, Madeleine can deal with it." The doctor moved closer to attend to the cut, and to bandage a soft pad over the head injury. Madeleine stepped quietly behind the sofa, reaching down over its back. Erik took her hand. "Madeleine, what became of Girard and the carriage?"

"The street was full of police. Girard sent the carriage to wait a little distance away, and walked back here with me. When the footman came looking for me, Girard stayed behind, but said that he would be about the place, if needed."

"Could you get one of the servants here to guide you to the street? Girard will not approach a stranger, but you he will trust. Tell him to dismiss the carriage and go home. I will be in touch with him later."

The Marquis had come back into the room. "I shall find someone to go with you, Mademoiselle. Meanwhile, Monsieur, my men will bring a bed into this room for you, so that you may pass a comfortable night without having to move too much. I shall have a room prepared for Mademoiselle."

"That will not be necessary," Madeleine said quickly. "This sofa will do very well for me. I prefer to be within the sound of Erik's voice."

"As you wish. We will arrange something here."

Erik opened his bag and produced a hooded mask in black silk, which covered his face down to the chin. "You take my appearance very calmly, Monsieur le Marquis, but I shall wear this while your servants are in the room."

"By all means. When we found you, we noted that you were disguised. Now I know the reason. I shall tell my men that you prefer not to show your face. They need not know why."

Madeleine was escorted to the street; after a few minutes Girard found her and was given the message. When she returned to the room, things had been changed. The Marquis took her arm and guided her round the new arrangement. A bed had been placed for Erik. The doctor and his assistant had helped him change into nightclothes and settled him in it, but the movement had evidently tired him. He pressed Madeleine's hand and tried to murmur reassurance, but made no more complaints about staying there for the night. The couch had been removed and a second bed brought in for Madeleine, concealed behind a folding screen. A nightdress and robe were laid ready.

"This is very kind," Madeleine said, using hands and cane to locate everything. "Whatever people may think, Erik and I are not accustomed to sharing a bedroom. But after all that has happened, I wish to remain near him, until we can return home."

Some food was brought for them, then they were left in peace for the night. Madeleine sat for a long time at Erik's bedside, clasping his hand, kissing him gently, stroking his forehead, until he fell asleep. Next morning he felt much better, sitting up in bed to eat breakfast. The doctor came back, reminding him that concussion needed several days of recovery. "I recommend complete bed rest for, say, four days. I can engage a male nurse to take care of your needs during that time. And of course, the Marquis will pay all the costs."

"No. No nurse."

"I rather expected that. Next best, then. You realise, of course, that you must not put weight on that leg. If I supply you with crutches, so that you can move if you must, will you try to stay in bed? Remember that, if you push yourself too far, you will faint and fall. Mademoiselle is very capable, but she cannot pick you up and put you to bed."

Erik reflected that on one occasion she had done exactly that, but refrained from saying so. "Madeleine, are you willing to fetch and carry for me, until my head stops spinning?"

"Of course. More than anything, I just want both of us to be home."

The Marquis had arranged a private ambulance to convey them home. When asked, Madeleine agreed that it would be easier if Erik slept on the ground floor until his leg mended, and that there was a suitable room. The Marquis would send two men with them to rearrange the furniture under her direction. During this discussion, a messenger arrived from the presidential office, with papers to be signed and witnessed. Erik had long ago left his family name behind, and wanted a common surname. He had used the name "Lisle" when dealing with his music agent, and that was now made official.

With everything arranged, the group boarded the large, well-sprung vehicle, the doctor inside with Erik and Madeleine, the Marquis's servants on the box with the driver. Erik was still unwell, and slept for most of the trip. It was tedious, but eventually it was over. Madeleine directed the servants to clear the dining room and bring Erik's bed downstairs. While Madeleine and the doctor settled him in bed, the servants fetched milk, bread and other provisions. Finally, with relief, Madeleine was able to wave them all away, sending back her thanks to the Marquis. She returned to Erik's room, feeling her way around the new arrangement of furniture.

"They are gone." She sighed. "They meant well, and they were helpful, but oh, I am glad that we are alone again."

"And I. Come here." When she moved to his bedside, he slid an arm round her, and pulled her down on to the bed beside him. She gasped, and laughed. "We are not wed yet!"

"I am being quite proper, my promised bride. You are on top of the covers and I am under them. I fear we must delay the wedding a little. I want to stand before the altar on my own feet, and not be distracted on our wedding night by broken bones."

"It's as well we have never used the brother-and-sister guise since we moved here. That would have shocked the townspeople when we marry. As it is, although I have called myself your housekeeper, I expect they think I am your mistress, and they will say you are making an honest woman of me."

"That would be beyond my skill. You are already the most honest woman I know." He kissed her forehead. "You look tired. Could you sleep a little?"

"Oh yes." Snuggled against him, she fell into a sweet, dreamless sleep.

O-O-O

He noticed when she woke, and stroked her hair. "Better? I slept on the way, but I think that you did not."

"The doctor kept talking. He seemed to think that, because I cannot see, I must be told everything which he could see from the window. Whether it was interesting or not."

"You have the gift of stillness. Not every has, or can even understand it." He kissed her, softly, but Madeleine responded, and the kiss grew stronger. Both could remember the one day when they had embraced. Not the first joining, the fierce burning away of Erik's frustrated desire for Christine, but the second, the gentle one, a matter of tender touching and exploring, each seeking to please the other, until passion swept away thought. The memory woke fresh desire.

"Oh…" With an effort, Madeleine pulled away. "This is not right. If we go on, we will regret it."

"Yes… you wish to wait until we are married… I understand," he murmured breathlessly.

"It doesn't matter about a ring on my finger. But I want you to be well, your hurts healed. I don't want to have to hesitate over every touch, in case I cause you pain."

"You are right, as usual. Go, then! Make some supper, while I lie here and try to mend my bones."

O-O-O

A week or so later, the Marquis sent a polite note, asking if he might visit them. He realised that they kept no resident servants, and timed his call so that they would not be expected to produce a meal for him. By this time, Erik was fairly nimble on his crutches, although still spending much of his time in bed. For the visit, though, he had Madeleine help him dress, so that he could greet the guest properly. He wore a wig but left his face uncovered, since the Marquis had already seen it. At least the cuts from the explosion had healed.

"I am glad to see you recovering so well," said the Marquis. "I really thought that you should be in hospital, but you and Mademoiselle were so intent on returning home. Now I see that you were right."

"Our privacy is important to us," replied Erik. "We are both wary of attracting attention. But speaking of attracting attention, what is being said about the assassination attempt? I recall that you were left with a gaping hole in the front wall of your house. Surely people would notice…?"

"Ah. The police issued a statement that it was a gas explosion. Dangerous words like 'bomb' and 'assassin' were never mentioned. Oh, and the man who threw the bomb has been caught. The police, with added emphasis from the President, firmly told all the guests and staff to keep quiet about what really happened. For a wonder, the orders seem to have been followed. One or two confused rumours have been whispered, but in the main the event has remained secret. I am afraid, Monsieur Lisle, that it robs you of the accolade you undoubtedly deserve for your actions that night. But perhaps you prefer it that way."

"Indeed I do. And, thanks to Mademoiselle Duval's quick thinking when the President spoke to us, I have already received all the reward I want."

"As have I," smiled Madeleine, stroking the diamond ring she wore.

"So the wedding will go ahead? The president told me of that rather abrupt proposal, although he did not mention it to the others."

"It will, when I can walk unaided again. We have been discussing how best to manage it. Madeleine is all for making it a public event, letting everyone see us, in the hope that we could then stop hiding from view." Erik pressed Madeleine's hand. "Since my appearance is so much worse than her blank eyes, and I have experienced worse treatment because of it, I am less sure." He gave a wry smile. "Still, if the wedding should turn into a lynching, at least then I would have the fame that you think I deserve."

Madeleine looked anxious. "Erik, when you say things like that… I have to hope that you are joking. But I am never sure."

Erik touched her hand again. "No, that was a sample of my twisted humour. My past has soured me somewhat, but I hope for better things from the future."

"I wonder," considered the Marquis, "Would it help if I attended the wedding? If I may be invited? If my wife and I came, with all the pomp and ceremony attached to an ancient family…"

"Your power and influence would lend legitimacy to the occasion," completed Erik. "Yes, indeed. I wonder if I could presume upon your kindness one degree further. My fiancée is an orphan, with no family. Would you consent to escort her down the aisle?"

"I would be honoured. Mademoiselle?"

"Oh, yes! Monsieur le Marquis, the honour is mine!"

He smiled. "I have sons, but no daughters. I shall enjoy being father of the bride. I must practise pacing to the Wedding March."

"But not Wagner," put in Erik. "It is not a favourite of Madeleine's. It will be something like this – " Swinging himself on crutches to the piano, he played a few bars of a processional march with a light and joyful sound.

"Why, that is beautiful! I have never heard it before."

"No one has, but Madeleine and myself. I have just started writing it."

He expressed admiration for the music, and they went on to discuss arrangements for the wedding. The Marquis undertook to provide professional musicians to play at the reception, and Erik supplied some music from his own library, to be used alongside popular tunes. The meeting continued much longer than any of them had expected, but eventually the visitor took his leave.

Later, Madeleine observed, "You are very quiet this evening, Erik. Are you annoyed that the Marquis wants to do so much? Do you feel you have lost the initiative?"

"No, it isn't that. He could be a good friend to us, and I am pleased that he wants to be involved. But… after we had discussed music… when he had heard some of my own work… I saw him looking at me thoughtfully, once or twice. I had almost forgotten… he knows the Chagnys."

"Oh… and you think he might remember the stories about them… about the Opera?"

"I am sure he was not present, the night I was unmasked. He would have known me immediately when he saw me at his house. But now, he might be piecing together fragments that he has heard, about the Phantom composer. I was boastful, too proud of my work. Still, it is too late to withdraw now. We must take what comes."

O-O-O


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9: A Voice from the Past – Part 2

While Erik used the downstairs room as a bedroom, Madeleine furnished his room upstairs as a bridal chamber. There was some interest in the town that the odd-looking, reclusive musician and his blind housekeeper were to be married. Erik had seldom been seen by the townspeople, and only when disguised by wig, beard and spectacles. Invitations went out to the limited acquaintances they had in the town, to Erik's music agent, and to the President (who declined but sent good wishes). A local hotel was engaged to provide the reception, with instructions that anyone who turned up without an invitation was nevertheless to be admitted and catered for. They had agreed on an exercise in bravado.

Madeleine advised Erik against looking too much like his Phantom persona. Though he was immune now from prosecution, there would be unpleasantness or even hatred stirred up, if people made that connection. But more than two years had passed since his public unmasking, and no one in this small town had been there. When he stepped from the hired carriage at the church, he wore his immaculate black tail-coat suit. His head was concealed by a wig of light brown, slightly curly hair, but his face was unmasked. Girard accompanied him as best man, ignoring the gasps and muttering from the waiting crowd.

A few minutes later, Madeleine arrived, escorted by the Marquis. She wore a simple, elegant white gown, and carried herself proudly, her eyes uncovered. She and Erik had planned this demonstration together, knowing what people would say; that the only woman he could secure would be one who could not see him, and the only man who would endure her blank eyes would be one who could do no better. They treated it as a joke, knowing how perfectly suited they were, but still there was pain beneath the smiles.

Madeleine had hesitated about wearing white, but Erik was firm. "You have committed no sin. It was not your fault that you were violated. Indeed, when I think about that, I marvel that you can ever trust me or any man again. And the other time… you gave yourself to me, as you might give water to a man dying of thirst, because my need was desperate. It was an act of purest charity. There is no stain upon you, and on this one day, I would proclaim that to all the world."

And so they made their vows before a small group of special guests, then braved the reception and the stares of the townspeople, hoping that this display would lay curiosity to rest. The musicians gave a sublime performance of Erik's work. By the third song, when the audience sat enraptured, the bride and groom slipped quietly away to their home.

O-O-O

They sat together in the living room, each thoughtfully sipping a glass of wine. There was no haste. The evening was to be savoured, like the wine. Madeleine spread out the skirts of her wedding gown around her legs, enjoying the touch of the fine fabric.

"Erik… I have never asked you. Once or twice, people have called me pretty. Am I pretty, to you? I would like to be."

"To me? Mmm… no. I would not call you pretty. I would call you beautiful. To see your face turned to me, so full of love and trust… Your features are agreeable, but your expression… that is true beauty."

Madeleine pressed a hand to her mouth. "You will make me cry… I should not cry, on my wedding day."

"If you do, then I shall kiss away your tears. Listen now – this is for you." He went to the piano, and played the melody he had written for her, long ago. But that had been simple, for unskilled fingers. Now the same tune was there, but with the loveliest sophistication that he could give it. Madeleine moved to stand behind him, her hands on his shoulders. When the tune was done, he carefully closed the piano, stood and took her in his arms. There were tears on her cheeks, and he kissed them away, then led her upstairs. In the stillness of the new-decked chamber, they shared a love with no doubts or regrets, and slept.

Eventually Madeleine woke, refreshed. "It's early," Erik said softly. "Dawn."

"I know. I hear the birds saying so." She smiled, and reached for him. "The most splendid dawn I have ever known."

O-O-O

In some ways, it seemed that their lives had not changed. Erik had his music, Madeleine her handicrafts, and as much of the household work as she chose to do, for Erik would engage any help which she asked for. Now, though, they shared the nights, going gladly to each other's arms, and that was change enough.

The first Sunday after their wedding, they went to church together, Erik wearing his wig but unmasked, Madeleine in a neat blue gown and matching eye-band. Privately, each had their own opinions about a God who allowed innocent children to be born blighted, but churchgoing was normal behaviour, and they would try to be normal, if the townspeople allowed it. As they left the church, the priest spoke a few words of greeting and well-wishing to them. A nervous-looking woman approached as he did so, and asked to be introduced.

"Of course. Madame Lisle, Monsieur Lisle, this is Madame Chevalier, who lives with her family in the Rue des Champs."

"Madame… Monsieur… I have no wish to intrude, but I would be grateful if I may speak with you for a few moments."

"Certainly. Perhaps we should step aside from the door." Erik drew Madeleine's hand through his arm, and with a courtly gesture, indicated to Madame Chevalier that they should move along the path.

A little reassured by his polite manner, unaware that he had mainly learned the moves by watching actors on stage, the lady walked with them. Madeleine, sensing her uncertainty, asked, "Can we help you in some way, Madame Chevalier?"

"I… I am not sure. It's my son, you see… Well, I have two children. My daughter is nine, and my son is six. But my son was born blind. We have tried to keep him safe, but it's hard to know what is best for him."

"I understand," replied Madeleine. "You would ask me what it is like to live blind, and how you may best help your son."

"It is an imposition… I am sorry…"

"No need to apologise," put in Erik. "It is a fair question, but one which requires time to discuss, and this may not be the best place. Are your children here?"

"In the carriage, with my husband. He thought I should not… should not intrude, but…"

"It is no intrusion, believe me," Madeleine reassured her. "I would be glad to discuss it. Perhaps we could meet with you and your husband…" she thought for a moment. "The Hotel du Lyon? For tea this afternoon?" She and Erik were known at the hotel, and the staff would not raise difficulties. This woman's own servants might be a different story, while Erik and Madeleine had no maids to wait upon visitors.

Later that afternoon, the four of them sat round a table. Monsieur Chevalier was clearly uneasy, both with Erik's presence and the discussion of the private family trouble, but his wife found it a relief to be able to talk about her son to a sympathetic listener.

"You said he is six," recalled Madeleine. "How much has he been taught? Does he know his ABC?"

"Oh yes, he can recite the alphabet…"

"But what is the point?" put in her husband. "He can never read or write. It is just a meaningless chant to him."

"I was taught with letters made of wood," answered Madeleine. "Get him some, teach him the names of the shapes, and how to spell simple words. The first time he lays out a word of his own choosing, and you say what it is, he will be delighted. Soon he will realise the limits of the wooden letters, and then you must find a Braille teacher for him."

"Braille? How does it work? Is it any use?" asked the husband doubtfully.

Madeleine rummaged in her bag and produced the small frame with which she could write short Braille notes. "Let us demonstrate… Erik, would you mind leaving us for a few minutes? Take a turn or two in the garden."

Erik smiled. "Four days married, and you are tired of me already? Very well, I understand." With a light touch to her arm, he rose and went away.

When he had gone, Madeleine went on, "Now, Madame Chevalier, give me a message to write. You will see that this is slower than a sighted person with pen and ink, but nevertheless it works."

Madeleine punched the message into the paper, then put it down on the table. Erik, glancing in through the window, saw that she had finished, and rejoined them. Borrowing Madeleine's eye-band, he blindfolded himself before taking the paper and running his fingertips over it. "With faith, we can move mountains." He removed the blindfold and handed it back to Madeleine. "Very inspiring."

Madame Chevalier glanced sidelong at her husband. "I was tempted to use, 'none so blind as those who will not see.'"

But he smiled. "Very well, you win. We will find specially-skilled teachers, and educate the lad to the best of his abilities."

"Yes," agreed Madeleine. "Think about what he can do, not about what he cannot."

"Have you tried to find out if he is musical?" added Erik. "Not lessons, not yet. Give him something simple, a penny-whistle or a toy xylophone. You will find out soon enough if he wants to make music, or simply to make noise."

After that, the Chevaliers were cautiously friendly, and told others that the Lisles, though an odd-looking pair, were civil enough and need not be avoided. Erik and Madeleine would walk in the park on fine afternoons, and after a while the curious stares gave way to more friendly greetings.

But things were not always so easy. Erik noticed the people who crossed the road to avoid them, who made signs to ward off the evil eye, or quickly drew their children away. He did not tell Madeleine about these things, but he could not prevent her from hearing when a young man, egged on by his companions, shouted insults at both of them from across the park. Madeleine's hand tightened on Erik's arm. They continued to walk, but Erik fixed a hard stare on the youths, who came no closer, edging away with a poor pretence of nonchalance.

For some time after that, they avoided the park, and a spell of wet weather provided a convenient excuse. Erik, however, went out alone, frequently, by day or night, always disguised. Madeleine worried, but he did not explain. If he did not want to tell her, it was no good asking. She thought he would not lie to her, but a flat refusal to answer would be painful for both of them.

Late one evening, however, Erik came home in a perceptibly cheerful mood. "I think, my dear, we may walk in the park on the next sunny day, and not be harassed again."

Madeleine did not echo his good cheer. "Erik, what have you done? What has happened?"

"Oh, nothing very much. A slight accident befell that loud-mouthed bumpkin we encountered. He was struck on the head by a broken tile sliding from a roof."

"Erik! You could kill someone like that!"

"It was only a small piece of tile. Nicely calculated. It caused a scalp wound, which bled, as scalp wounds do. I'm afraid the flowing hair he takes pride in will have to be cut short until it heals. And his favourite velvet coat will never be the same again. But now, he and his friends may pay attention to the strange whispers they have heard, whispers that it is bad luck to offend… what was it?... gargoyle devils."

"And dead-eyed hell-bitches."

Erik dropped his manic banter, and drew Madeleine into an embrace. "I am sorry you had to hear that."

"It was only words. Do words merit bloodshed?"

"Madeleine, I have known people like that since before you were born. If you permit them to throw insults unchallenged, soon they throw filth, or stones, or fire. Then they reach for guns. We must defend ourselves from the outset, if we wish to stay here."

Madeleine thought of the replies she might make. She could say, 'I seized the chance to get you a fresh start, a clean record. Would you throw that away?' She could say, 'You were gambling with death, yours as well as his. Keep doing that, and one day you will lose.' But she had married this man knowing well what he was, capable of violence, fanatical about self-preservation. If she had begun to let wishful thinking cloud her reason, to think of him as 'ordinary' – that was her fault, not his.

She relaxed into his arms, and sighed. "Erik, I accept what you say. But please – take care. Remember that I need you."

O-O-O


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10: A Voice from the Past – Part 3

They encountered the Chevalier family one day, and Madame told them of the lessons they had arranged for little Pierre. "You were right about the wooden letters, Madame Lisle. He has taken to them very well. He knows the names of all the letters, and has started forming simple words. Oh, and Monsieur, we bought him a penny-whistle as you suggested, and he likes it very much. He does try to play tunes, not just make noise. He says that one of the notes is not right, but I expect it is just his lack of skill."

"Perhaps not," replied Erik. "Those instruments are mass-produced, and may not always be perfect. If I may look at it some day, I will give you an opinion. Music is, after all, my profession."

"Why, that is kind. He has it with him now. It stays in his pocket." The two children were playing at a little distance on the grass, and Madame Chevalier called them to her. The girl stared at Erik, but had good enough manners not to comment. "Pierre," said Madame Chevalier, "this kind gentleman knows about music, and he says he will look at your whistle and see if the notes are proper, or not. Will you give it to him?"

"Here you are, Monsieur." He pulled it from his pocket. "It does this…" he played each note, then repeated one of them. "That one is wrong." Not knowing where Erik was standing, he held up the whistle for him to take.

"Thank you, Pierre. I think you are right about that note." Erik played a more confident scale on the whistle, and the off-key note sounded more clearly. "I could mend that for you, if you would allow me to take the whistle home. It needs a small adjustment to the hole. It would not be difficult."

"And then will it play properly? Could you play a tune on it, Monsieur?"

"I expect so." Erik thought for a moment, seeking a melody that could avoid the flat note, then played a lively air which set the children clapping, and turned the heads of passing adults. "But if you want to play it like that, you will have to practise for a long time."

Pierre wanted to have his whistle mended immediately, but was unwilling to part with it, so the whole party took the Chevalier carriage the short distance to Erik's house. Erik took the whistle to his work-room, while Madeleine offered wine to the adults and milk to the children. After a few minutes, Erik returned the whistle to Pierre, who played a scale, now in tune. Erik took the boy's hands and adjusted his grip a little. "You will find it easier this way. But you are blowing too hard on the first note, then you run out of breath before the end. Try to start more softly, and keep the same softness all the way through." Pierre's next try was better.

"You're very kind, Monsieur," said Chevalier. His wife added, diffidently, "I wonder… do you ever give music lessons?"

"No," replied Erik immediately. "I am mainly a composer. But there are good teachers to be found, when Pierre is ready for that."

When the visitors had gone, Madeleine asked Erik, "Have you ever thought about teaching?"

"I might teach, if I found someone with sufficient talent to repay my efforts. That child? No, he is nothing special. And I do not wish to commit so much of my time. If I want to teach… you shall be my victim! Have you been practising, Madame…?"

"No, Maestro, because you monopolise the piano for so much of the time. And when you are not playing, I would rather be with you than at the keyboard."

"Ah. A fair point. We shall see what may be done."

O-O-O

The Marquis came to visit them every few weeks. He was amiable company, bringing gossip from the capital, and himself enjoying the quiet country air. One day, he had news of a gala concert to be held later in the year, a prestigious event at Notre Dame, to raise money for a number of charities. "A friend of mine has been invited to perform. She was once a professional singer, but retired when she married into a titled family. Society did not make life easy for her at first, but now she is becoming accepted."

Madeleine knew full well who was being discussed, and sought a neutral reply, giving Erik a moment to recover his composure. "Society," she remarked, "holds the opinion that any woman who appears on the stage must be a harlot. And like all such sweeping statements, it is wrong as often as it may be right."

"Very true," added Erik. "Virtuous women can be found on the stage, and wanton ones in the audience. Monsieur, I do not mingle with society, but I follow news of the world of professional music. You speak, I imagine, of the Vicomtesse de Chagny."

"Indeed. And I raise the matter now, Monsieur Lisle, because of your musical expertise. The Vicomtesse supports the cause, and wants to contribute. I have heard her say that she would like to have a new song for the occasion, something that has no associations with her past. I said nothing to her about you, but I was most impressed with your music at the wedding."

Erik sat silent for several seconds. Then he went to his desk for a card, which he handed to the Marquis. "This is my music agent, in Paris. I do not deal directly with clients. If the lady wishes a song written for her, she should go to the agent and state her requirements. A soprano voice, obviously, but solo or with chorus? Piano or orchestra accompaniment? Would she wish for just the music, or the lyrics also? Secular or religious? Sad or bright? Has she kept up with her training, or should the music make allowances for a possible lapse? Let her give as much detail as possible. The agent will explain terms. If I can write something suitable, it will be shown to her, and it is her choice whether to accept it."

After the Marquis had left, Madeleine asked quietly, "Will you write for her? I think it would be a challenge, and although our life is pleasant, it offers you few challenges."

"Yes. If she asks, I will write, and it will be the best work I can do. She wants no associations with her past? Then I must produce a song she will never recognise as mine. A challenge indeed." Erik moved to sit by Madeleine, and drew her close to him. "Does it trouble you? That I must think of her again, when I had almost managed to forget her?"

"Erik, I can give you my love and my trust, and make a comfortable home for us. But I cannot share your music, not in the way that she could. If you have a chance to wake again that angel voice, you should take it. But…" she smiled a little, "be sure to get us tickets for the concert. And remember that it is I whom you are taking home afterwards."

The request for a song came from the agent. Erik had already been planning it, and now devoted himself to making it as perfect as he could. The words spoke of rainbows, and of how there was always hope beyond darkness. It could have been trite, but he kept the lyric simple, so that any listener could find it personally apt, and he wove all the beauty into the melody. In due course, the message came back that the song had been accepted, but he heard no more than that. The concert was still several months away, and the waiting seemed long. He hoped that Christine had found a teacher who could bring her voice back to something like the splendour that he had once conjured from her.

O-O-O

Madeleine felt his restlessness, and wondered how to distract him, but one day it was he who raised a new subject. "Madeleine… Have you ever thought about moving to another house?"

"I…" She was surprised. "I hadn't thought about it… I have been happy here, and I think you have, too. But if you want to move… my home is not bricks and mortar, it is being at your side."

"You have never wanted somewhere bigger?"

"Do we need more space? Perhaps, though, if we have children…"

"What?" It was his turn to be surprised. "But… is that likely? You are young, but I am turned fifty, twice your age…"

"That is no barrier. Erik, did you never think of that? All these nights we share…? True, I have not conceived yet, but we are not long married. I have hope."

"Hope, do you call it? Would you want a child with my face, or with your eyes, or twice-damned with both?"

"Why should that be? There was no history of blindness in my family, nor disfigurement in yours. We each of us came as a painful shock to our mothers. If a child of ours was marked as we are, at least we would not be surprised, and I would love our child, come what may. I think, though, that he would be born whole and well. But Erik, consider this now. For if you decide you really do not want children, the only certain way is for us to live celibate. We did it before, for more than two years, but I confess I would not want to go back to that now."

"Nor I." He drew her into an embrace. "It's just that I had not thought of it. You said once before, I can be more blind than you, for something that I do not wish to see. Well, we shall take what fate sends, and I must draw courage from you."

"But you started to talk about the house. If not for children, then what? Do you want to move to another town?"

"No, certainly not. We are known here, accepted after a fashion, and I do not want to start again in a strange place. But I have recently heard of a house for sale, not far from here, a little larger than this. There is an orangery which I believe would make a splendid music room. I know you like hearing me play, but when I compose, in bits and snatches… that is tedious for a listener. And when my agent comes to discuss his latest requirements, it would be good to have a place of business, and not have to invite him into our inner sanctum."

"A bigger house… we would need more staff, servants living with us instead of the daily woman we have here."

"Yes, I know, and that would intrude upon our privacy. But in that house, the servants lodge in a separate wing. They can be dismissed until wanted."

"It sounds as though it were designed for us. And you found it all in a moment… or... how long have you been looking for such a perfect home?"

He chuckled. "Since you reminded me that you get little chance to practise your music. Here, we have no space for a second piano. But listen, Madeleine. You know that sometimes, I need to go into Paris to do business about my music. It worries me to leave you alone here. If we had staff I would be happier, knowing you were safe. That would be worth the intrusion to me, although I don't know how you feel about it. I did wonder if you would like to have a proper lady's-maid, who could keep you company when I am working, sort your wools by colour for you, be at your beck and call."

"Someone to read to me… yes, I have sometimes thought of that. A girl fresh from school, who could learn my ways. Will it amuse or annoy you, if I ask whether we can afford this new house?"

"My ever-practical lady, I expected you to ask. Yes, we can. We have the Marquis's generous wedding gift as yet untouched. In many ways, owning that house would be a better investment than the rent we pay on this one."

They viewed the house, and found it very suitable. The formalities of purchase were in train, but not completed, when one day, they received an unexpected visit from the Marquis. He hurried through the usual civilities, clearly with something on his mind which he found difficult to say.

"You may not have heard… a street accident, an overturned carriage. The Chagnys. He escaped with slight wounds, but she… has lain senseless, in a coma since it happened, more than a week ago. The doctors do not know why she does not wake, but head injuries are mysterious and baffling."

"This is… sad, tragic," replied Madeleine after a moment. "But do they hold out any hope for her? Surely she is having the best of attention?"

"Oh yes. De Chagny is distraught. Everything that can be done for her is being done. One expert says that familiar sounds can sometimes penetrate through such unconscious states, and call the mind back to wakefulness. De Chagny sits at her bedside, and talks to her for hours at a time. Also, he has had a summerhouse in the garden converted to a hospital room for her, so that she may hear the songbirds, and the sound of the fountain she always liked." The Marquis rose from his chair and paced the room. "It is said… understand, the lady does not talk about her past, but… it is known that she was once an unregarded chorus dancer, and then she was taught to sing. Some of the ballet girls talk about a mysterious tutor who was never seen. In the same way, they talk about the Phantom of the Opera, who terrorised the management into promoting Christine Daaé into starring roles, and who wrote such a wonderful part for her in his own opera. Then she vanished, and it was thought that the Phantom had taken her, but she reappeared in the care of the Vicomte. The Phantom, of course, was unmasked that night. Everyone agrees that his appearance was terrifying, but if you ask what he looked like, you will get a different answer from everyone whom you question." He ceased pacing and stood staring at the wall, not looking at either Erik or Madeleine. "It seems to me… if any voice could call Christine from her trance… then perhaps her teacher's voice might be the one."

Erik moved to stand close to the Marquis. "But does it occur to you, after all that happened, that her teacher's voice might frighten her into the darkness forever?"

The Marquis faced him. "I don't know. I only know… I like those young people. They are decent, warm-hearted… I wish I could help them, in this great trouble. This is all I could think of. But it is true that… back in those days… there was much to fear. I should not reawaken such things. She has had enough of death."

Erik drew a long breath. "And so have I, Monsieur. So have I." He glanced at Madeleine, sitting very still, saying nothing but catching every word. "However, even if… her teacher… were willing to try, he would not be admitted to her bedside. On the contrary, he would be hounded away with fury."

"Yes, I know." He paced across the room again. "Perhaps… I could get the Vicomte to leave her, for an hour or two. Another doctor with new ideas… I could arrange for them to meet at my house. But Christine would never be left unattended. And – " he paused to look straight at Erik, " – no harm must come to any, even a nurse or servant."

"That is understood. No harm. Perhaps a little inconvenience. Monsieur, you have given me a great deal to think about. Perhaps I may send you a telegram, asking only, 'When?' If you receive such a cable, will you send me the date and time?"

"Yes." The Marquis sighed. "But think well, Monsieur. I do not want to bring you into danger. Think well."

O-O-O


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11: A Voice from the Past – Part 4

Erik laid out the items he wanted, ready to pack them in a bag. "Madeleine… would you come with me?"

"Gladly!" she answered in surprise. "But shall I not slow you down? I cannot climb drainpipes!"

"I have a feeling that it would be better if you came. You brought me good luck, the last time I took you on a mad venture. And…"

"If you invade the bedroom of another man's wife, it would look better if you had your own wife with you," she filled in with unflinching frankness. "Erik… if she should open her eyes… whom will she see?"

There was a soft sound of movement, then he replied, "Come and touch me. She must see the man she used to know." Madeleine moved closer and reached for Erik's face. She had handled the half-mask before, but never while he wore it. She felt the lines now, how it mirrored the good side of his face, how this wig swept back in a pristine smoothness.

"In this guise, you are beautiful," she said thoughtfully. "But… not the Erik that I know."

"For the moment, into the bag with the Phantom mask. I leave here as Erik Lisle, reclusive composer. I can change when we get there."

Erik had hesitated for several days after the Marquis brought the news. He wondered if he was simply afraid of failing to get a response from Christine, or if it was the deeper fear that his presence might even make things worse. A message from the Marquis said that her condition remained unchanged. If Christine was deaf to Raoul, Erik did not really believe she would hear him, but finally he knew he had to try. He could not deny her this chance, slight though it was. Or perhaps… he could not deny himself the chance to say goodbye to her.

He had already inspected the house and grounds once by night, and Girard had watched in the daytime and reported on the routine movements of the occupants. In gathering dusk, the hired carriage dropped them in a quiet lane, then moved on to wait at the agreed rendezvous. There was a garden wall to be climbed. Erik helped Madeleine to the top, handed her the bag while he scrambled up and over, then eased her down. Only now did he don the Phantom's mask and wig. If by some miracle he could awaken Christine, she must know who came, the man who had once released her, and who might now release her from a different captivity.

Erik led Madeleine cautiously through the shrubbery until he had a view of the summerhouse. It had two rooms, one dimly lit, one brighter. His timing was good. A servant was just returning to the main house, having delivered a tray with the nurse's supper. A window afforded a glimpse of the bright room, a kitchen where the nurse sat alone to eat. At one point she left the table to look into the adjacent bedroom, satisfying herself that her patient was quiet, then she returned to finish her meal. Somewhere a cricket chirped, and the nearby fountain babbled in its basin. All else was hushed.

Crouched beneath the open window, Erik began to sing, a soft, wordless music that blended with the water noise and seemed part of it, a sound the ear strained after but could not capture. Madeleine felt her consciousness drift away, until Erik seized her wrist and dug his nails into her skin. She held on to the pain, as the hypnotic song grew more pronounced, a promise of sweet dreams to a yielding mind. The nurse nodded in her chair. Erik slipped through the window, still singing, and loosely bound a scarf around the woman's head, holding a pad soaked with aromatic fluid over her nose and mouth. He waited a minute or two until she slept soundly, and eased her into a more comfortable position, arms and head on the table. Then he went back to Madeleine and brought her in by the door.

"The nurse will sleep for at least an hour," he said softly, "unless that scarf is removed. I was prepared to bind and gag her, but this way is better."

In the next room, in soft lamp-light, Christine lay in a white bed, a still, shrunken figure, her face gaunt. Her head was swathed in bandages, but it seemed likely that her beautiful hair had been cut off. Her breathing stirred the covers, and her face twitched in slight spasms. Erik whispered her name softly, pain in his voice, but she did not respond.

On a bedside table was a glass of water, fitted with a lid and drinking tube. It appeared, then, that she could at least drink by herself, even if she must be subjected to the indignity of tube-feeding. Erik explained what he saw to Madeleine. Between them, they steadied Christine's head and offered her the drinking tube, not wanting to deprive her of a service which the nurse might have offered. The unconscious woman sipped a little and swallowed automatically, then lapsed back into stillness. Madeleine sat at the bedside and held Christine's hand. Erik stood back and summoned again the tone that he had used when he first taught her.

"Christine, the voice must be warmed up to reach its potential. We shall begin with this exercise…" He vocalised up and down a range of notes, not a formal scale. Then he moved on to scales, exercises, the first songs that he had taught her. He demonstrated in his normal tenor voice, then with little effort shifted to her soprano range and sang as he wanted her to sing. Madeleine was entranced, but she kept her attention on Christine, listening for any attempt at speech, feeling for any movement of the hand she held.

For nearly an hour Erik persisted, speaking instruction, singing all the songs that he had shared with Christine, asking her for responses and waiting vainly for any sign that she heard. He could not safely stay much longer… and then it was too late. There was a sound of movement in the kitchen, a man's voice exclaiming in surprise. The bedroom door flew open, framing Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny. He froze at the sight of surely his worst nightmare, the Phantom of the Opera standing at the foot of Christine's bed. Raoul made to leap forward, but was stopped by the sight of the pocket pistol which had appeared in Erik's hand.

"You!" spat Raoul. "You haunt us still! Can you not leave her in peace, even now?"

"Peace?" hissed Erik. "This living death? Is this the peace you want for her?"

"I want… I always wanted her happiness. You never gave her that. You used her, made her your puppet."

"I gave her glory. I could have – "

"_Quiet!"_ Madeleine's voice cut shrilly across the room. "Be quiet, both of you! Listen! Listen…"

A thread of sound stirred the momentary silence, and it came from Christine's mouth. Hardly words, hardly music, and yet she was trying to sing. Eyes closed, breath labouring, some part of her spirit strove to communicate. The men drew closer, Raoul at Madeleine's shoulder, although scarcely noticing her, Erik on the opposite side of the bed. And Erik recognised the fragments of sound. It was the new song, her Rainbow song. In the quietest voice, he picked up the melody and sang it with her. She seemed to find strength from his guidance. This whisper was a pale ghost of her real voice, but now the melody was clear. Madeleine moved aside and gently urged Raoul to take her chair, placing Christine's hand in his. Erik noticed Christine's eyelids flickering, and backed away, still singing just loudly enough to partner her in the song. If Raoul saw him move, he made no sign, all his attention on Christine, softly calling her name. Erik took Madeleine's hand and led her back to the kitchen. Moving swiftly now, he released the scarf from round the nurse's face, picked up his bag, and the two of them faded out into the night.

Before they crossed the wall to the lane, Erik had changed again, back to Lisle, the Phantom's mask and wig packed in the bag. They returned to the carriage and began the journey home, all without speaking. Eventually Erik broke the silence. "The Phantom has sung his last song. But it was sung to a good end. Perhaps we should stop on a bridge somewhere and drop this bag in the river, laying the Phantom to rest."

But Madeleine took the bag from him and held it in her arms. "No. We can let the Phantom sleep. But if he is ever needed… he can wake again."

O-O-O

Some days afterward, a letter arrived, addressed to them in the Marquis's handwriting. It contained only a short note from him, explaining that he had been asked to forward another letter, enclosed. Erik broke the seal on the inner envelope, read it through silently, then aloud to Madeleine.

_Monsieur,_

_I recall an evening at the home of the Marquis, when disaster was averted by a mysterious stranger, swift in action and deadly with a strangling noose. I believe that the Marquis will know where to deliver this letter. I do not know, nor do I wish to find out._

_I think you are entitled to know that Christine gains strength daily, and hopes to be well enough to sing at the concert. She has no memory of the dark days when her mind was lost to us, nor of the voice which called her back. For her peace of mind, I shall not tell her whose voice it was._

_Christine once told me of an "angel" who visited her. When I met him, I would have called him a demon. But that night in the garden house, you were truly an angel to her – and even to me, in that you brought her back to me._

_Christine loves her Rainbow song, but she has been keeping it a secret, to surprise the audience at the concert. Who knows the song? She and I, her accompanist, the music agent, and of course the composer. That night, I saw and heard that the Phantom of the Opera knows the song. It is not difficult to reach a conclusion._

_Monsieur, I trust you will take no offence if I hope that we never meet again. But you have my heartfelt thanks for your help and (what I never thought to say to you) my good wishes for your future._

_Raoul de Chagny_

o.o.o End of "Part 2 – A Voice from the Past" o.o.o


	12. Chapter 12

_**Author's note:** In "Opening Doors," I explore what married life is like for Erik and Madeleine, and in the main it is a scene of domesticity. For readers who prefer action/adventure stories – please be patient until I get to chapter 15, "Shadows from the Past." You'll find at that point that the pace hots up!_

* * *

Chapter 12: Opening Doors - Part 1

Their new house, though not huge, had spacious rooms which flowed into one another. Madeleine, guided through by Erik, found it easy to remember the layout, and enjoyed the extra space. The orangery was beautiful; Erik described its glass panels and white, vine-clad arches to her. The acoustics were all that Erik had hoped, making it a perfect music studio. They employed a staff of two maids, a manservant and a cook, chosen because all were willing to ignore Erik's appearance, and be helpful to Madeleine. Madeleine had less housework to occupy her now, but instead she had a sitting room of her own with her own piano, so that she could practise and play her simple tunes, without distracting Erik from his work.

After consultation with a local schoolmistress, a girl called Annette was hired to be Madeleine's personal maid. Daughter of farm workers, the teacher had persuaded her parents to let her stay on at school, because she was bright enough to get a good job if she had some education. Now aged fifteen, her parents were stubbornly insisting that she get out and earn her keep. But to be a lady's maid was a higher-status job than labouring, and Annette was glad to get it. She loved books, and was delighted to find that one of her tasks would be to read to her employer.

Privately, though, Madeleine had doubts about this change in their lives. How would she manage, as mistress of such a household? She had been happy enough in the cottage with just the two of them. Of course, some household tasks were simply chores, done from necessity, and she was relieved of that now. But there had been an intimacy when she and Erik had done everything for themselves, and that was lost. Still, she could not express this to him. He was, she knew, trying to make life easier for her, and she could not be ungrateful. Besides, he clearly took great pleasure in his new music room, and she could do nothing to tarnish that.

Their first visitors were the Chevalier family, who had been friendly towards them since Madeleine had offered some advice on educating their blind son. The adults admired, the children romped. Pierre played his penny-whistle in the music room, enjoying the acoustics.

"He has three whistles now," confessed his mother, "in different keys. He is beginning to ask what else he might play. We have a piano, of course, but neither my husband nor I are musical, and Pierre can make no sense of it."

"He is very young, and his hands are still small," pointed out Erik. "He could probably hold a piccolo, but he would find it frustrating, trying to get a sound from it. It is different from blowing into a whistle."

"Monsieur," began Nicole, the ten-year-old daughter. She stood by a table where Erik's violin lay in its open case. "May I hold your violin?" She had always tended to avoid Erik, troubled by his face, and this was the first time she had spoken directly to him.

"You may, provided you are very careful with it."

The girl glanced at her hands. They were clean, but all the same she scrubbed them on her skirt, to lessen the chance of fingermarks on the polished wood. Then she picked the instrument out of the case, holding it in both hands and turning it to catch the light. "It is very beautiful." She held it out to him. "Would you play something? I love the sound of violins."

Willingly enough, Erik played a short melody. Something in the girl's wistful face caught his attention. "Would you like to hold the violin, Nicole? Hold it properly, I mean?" She nodded. "Sit here, then…"

He showed her how to hold it between chin and shoulder, placed her right hand on the bow, and guided her first stroke across the strings. Then he let her try by herself. Predictably, her first attempt produced an unpleasant scrape. Frowning in concentration, she slightly shifted bow angle and movement, until the sound smoothed out to a recognisable note. She tried bowing different strings, learning how to make a pleasant sound, never reverting to the scrape. Erik watched her keenly, and Madeleine listened in surprise, remembering her own unsuccessful efforts to get anything like music from the instrument.

"That's enough for now, Nicole," said Erik. "Please put the violin back in its case."

"Can I try it?" piped up Pierre.

"Not until you grow," replied Erik. "That is a full-sized violin, and it is really too big even for Nicole."

Later, the children ran round the garden, while the adults had coffee. "Has Nicole played a violin before?" asked Erik.

"No, she has never had one in her hands," replied Monsieur Chevalier. "Couldn't you tell? She was hardly playing music on it."

"Compared to the noises produced by most people on their first attempt, she handled it very well. It is possible she has a natural aptitude." He thought for a moment. "Madame Chevalier, once when we were discussing Pierre and his whistle, you asked if I ever give music lessons. I told you no, rather abruptly, I'm afraid. I was involved in another project, and did not want distractions. But if Nicole should express an interest in learning violin…"

"Erik, you cannot pick favourites with children," Madeleine put in. "If you teach one, teach both. And if one proves to have more talent than the other, you cannot favour that one"

Erik raised his eyebrows. "Very well. I do not wish to cause familial disharmony. Madame, Monsieur, I leave it to you. We can discuss this further if you wish."

O-O-O

One day, Madeleine noticed one of the maids being clumsy and slow about her work. It was not hard to guess the reason, and she considered how to deal with the matter. Perhaps it was better to be direct; she had always had a practical outlook. So one afternoon, she gathered Annette, the two housemaids and the cook in the kitchen. By previous arrangement, Erik had engaged the manservant in some work elsewhere.

"I have a word to say to you all," she began. "We are all women here, and we know that, some days, a woman is not at her best." There was some uncomfortable shifting among the others. This was not something normally discussed. Madeleine went on, "I have a rule about this. If one of you should come to me and say that you are a little unwell, consideration will be shown. You need not give any further explanation or excuse. 'A little unwell' shall be understood. We will rearrange the tasks, perhaps leave some jobs undone for a day or two, to lighten the load. If you feel the need to take to your bed or take medicine, that too will be arranged. You are servants and I expect service, but you are not slaves. Remember that I am also a woman, and I can be approached in this matter."

The cook, a brisk woman nearing forty, felt it incumbent on her to reply, as the maids were all pink with embarrassment. "That is very fair-spoken, Madame. Only… well, I know nothing against anyone here. Let me put it this way. Some places I have worked, I have known girls who would take your words as licence to spend one week out of four in bed."

"Yes, you are right of course, Madame Brun. And as I am blind, it is hard for me to judge if someone is really ill, or merely malingering. So, should I ever have the misfortune to encounter a servant such as you describe, my only course of action would be to dismiss her. I would give her as good a reference as I felt able to write, and my personal recommendation that she find a less strenuous employment."

Brun nodded. The lady was not such a soft touch, after all. "Very fair, Madame."

"Madame," began the older housemaid, "I just wondered… are you ever a little unwell?" The cook clicked her tongue critically.

"That question to me is bordering on impudence, as you well know," Madeleine said calmly. "But since I started this discussion, I shall answer it. Yes, sometimes I may be more idle and fretful than usual, or spend a day in bed. Fortune has smiled on me, but it is not so very long ago that I had to work for my living as you do. I was fortunate enough to find an employer who offered me the same discretion that I have now offered you. I appreciated that consideration very much, and never used it unfairly."

Madeleine returned to the sitting room, happy to have made her point, recalling those days when she had worked as Erik's maid, beneath the Opera House. She had been there three or four months, and had managed well enough, but one morning she woke clutching at her abdomen. Oh no – it had started, and it was going to be a bad one. She managed to dress and get to the kitchen early, before Monsieur was stirring, to conceal from him how little breakfast she could eat, and how near she came to bringing it back up. She tried to get through her normal tasks, but before the morning was far advanced, he asked sharply, "Madeleine, what is wrong? You look ill."

"Nothing… nothing is wrong, Monsieur."

"You are lying, and if you could see yourself, you would realise how useless such a lie is. Do you need a doctor?"

"No – oh, no. It is nothing, it will pass. I beg you, take no notice."

"I think I understand," he replied more quietly. "Women have troubles which they do not discuss with men. Are you afflicted with such a trouble today?"

She sighed. "Yes."

"Then do not be a martyr. Go back to bed, and leave your work. It can wait until tomorrow, or whenever you feel better."

"I left the bread rising…"

"Very well. I will see to that. Is there anything you can do, anything you can take, that will help you?"

"A hot drink… weak tea. That sometimes helps. I will make some…"

"You will go to bed, now. Make yourself as comfortable as you can. I will bring your tea in a few minutes. Leave your door unlocked so that I can enter."

"You are very kind, Monsieur." Tears were beginning to fill her eyes, and she turned away, but paused in the doorway. "Oh, and Monsieur… I have not locked my door since the first night I came here. I know I am safe here."

She hurried between her room and the bathroom, making herself clean and changing into nightclothes. When Monsieur had sent out for clothes and other necessities for her, it must have been a woman who did the shopping. These needs had been provided for, and she was thankful that she did not have to ask.

Monsieur gave her plenty of time. She was ready before he came, sitting up in bed, a shawl round her shoulders. She leaned back and relaxed, despite her pain, taking pleasure in being inactive. She had almost dozed off when he tapped at the door.

"Come in. Oh, I'm sorry, Monsieur, I should have lit a candle for you."

"No need. I brought one. I know you have no use for light." He put down a tray, which sounded rather heavy, and approached her bed. "I brought a hot-water bottle. Warmth is sometimes a comfort, in illness. I shall leave it here by your pillow, and you may use it or put it away on the floor, just as you please." Cutting short her thanks, he fetched the tea, put the cup and saucer on the bedside table, and guided her hand to it. "If there is anything I can do for you, tell me. Otherwise, I shall leave you to your rest."

Madeleine wiped hastily at the tears spilling down her cheeks. "Monsieur… you are too good, altogether too good to me."

"No more than you deserve. You are a good girl. Now drink your tea, and then rest." With a brief touch of his hand on her shoulder, he left her.

Madeleine rested, sometimes sleeping, until late afternoon. Then she rose, dressed, and took the tray through to the kitchen. She had not heard Monsieur playing at all during the day, but now he spoke to her from his chair by the fire, and she thought he must be reading.

"Are you feeling better? You look… not well, but less ill."

"Yes, I am better, thank you, Monsieur. I really need to get up for a while, or else I will not sleep tonight. And I would like to get something to eat now."

"Of course. Can I help you?"

"Oh, no… I can do it. Something simple, bread and honey perhaps, and coffee. I will get it."

"As you wish, but bring it here and sit in the armchair by the fire to eat. You may as well be comfortable."

She brought in her tray, sat across the fireplace from him, and leaned back luxuriously in the deep chair.

"Madeleine… I was wondering... As an old bachelor, I have spent little time in the company of women. This must have happened before, since you have been here…? But on such a personal matter, I have no right to question you. Stay silent, if you would rather not answer."

Madeleine thought for a moment. "My mother always encouraged me to feel able to discuss such things. It is different, talking to a man. But I don't mind… Yes, this is the… third? fourth? time since I have worked for you, but the others were not so bad. It is only sometimes that it makes me so ill as I was this morning. The first time, after I had come here… I welcomed that with relief, because…"

"Because it meant that you had not become pregnant, as a result of the attack on you. Yes, I knew that must be in your mind. I'm happy for you that you have not suffered that burden."

"Not pregnant, and not diseased. The event was bad enough, but at least I have been spared the after-effects that might have blighted me."

"You mentioned your mother. I suppose you must miss her."

Was that mere idle curiosity, or a subtle way to distract her from an even more painful memory? "Oh yes, Monsieur. We were so close… she was my best friend. But she had had griefs in her life, too. She taught me that, when bad things happen, we must pick up the pieces and carry on. To dwell too much on the past is like poking at a wound. It makes the pain worse, and delays the healing. She was very wise." Madeleine finished her drink, took the tray into the kitchen and washed up. Returning to the fireside, she asked, "Would it inconvenience you, Monsieur, if I brought my knitting here?"

"Not at all. I shall be playing the piano for a while, but the click of the needles is no distraction."

So for the rest of the evening, Madeleine knitted, listening to the beautiful music. She slept well, that night.

O-O-O

Madeleine smiled as she returned to the present. Erik had always been good to her. (She suppressed a memory of chilling rebukes, if she had failed to keep Christine's room perfect. Erik had mostly been good to her…) If he was not good to others, it was a product of his cruel upbringing. What a waste. What a man he might have been, had he been born with an ordinary face, or given fair treatment.

The day came for the grand charity concert at Notre Dame. Erik and Madeleine sat unobtrusively in the crowd, formally dressed, Erik in a flesh-textured mask. His face did not look quite normal, but nor did he look like the Phantom.

With Christine recovering from a recent illness, it had been uncertain whether she would be well enough to perform, but her name was in the programme, in a prestigious place just before the intermission. It looked like a last-minute insertion, and there was no indication of what she would sing, but they were confident that she would perform the Rainbow song which Erik had written. They waited with what patience they could muster, through the first half of the concert.

Christine walked on-stage, to great applause. Erik murmured quietly to Madeleine that she looked frail, thinner than she used to be, and she wore a wig to conceal her cut-short hair. But she drew herself up, faced the audience with a commanding presence, and began her first song, a popular Mozart aria.

Erik and Madeleine sat with hands clasped. Madeleine had felt the tension in Erik as Christine appeared, then he relaxed as she began to sing. Her voice was as fine as it had ever been, with all the beauty and skill that he had taught her. Madeleine felt tiny movements in Erik's hand as he responded to the music, and hoped it was only the beautiful voice which moved him. She had to believe that Christine as a woman no longer had power over him.

Christine acknowledged the applause for her first song, and waited for silence. As the orchestra began the introduction for the next piece, Erik audibly gasped, and for a moment his hand almost crushed Madeleine's. It took a few more bars for Madeleine to recognise it. Christine sang Aminta's aria from the first act of _Don Juan Triumphant_. It was a beautiful expression of artless innocence, written for stark contrast with the lies and corruption which would come later in the opera. Taken out of context, the loveliness of the song shone out like a flower freed from encroaching weeds. A few of the audience might have remembered it from its one previous public performance, but all of them loved it, and this time the applause was a storm. Erik sat stunned; Madeleine had to nudge him to remind him to clap, and not draw attention by failing to show appreciation.

Then Christine sang her Rainbow song, and in spite of what had gone before, it was a worthy climax to her performance. Madeleine was moved to tears by it. When it ended, the audience paid Christine the tribute of a long moment of silence, before bursting into a standing ovation.

It was the intermission. Erik pressed Madeleine's hand. "She will not sing again tonight. Her voice was tiring by the end, although I doubt if many people realised. May we go home now?"

"Yes, of course."

Erik said very little on the way home. Cab, train, cab again, and finally into their own home. In the drawing room, Erik sat down and drew Madeleine to sit in his lap, his arms round her. Finally, he spoke. "I never… never imagined she would sing anything from _Don Juan Triumphant_, ever again. I thought she would hate the very memory of it, as I do."

"But that song… that is the most beautiful piece of the whole opera. I remember thinking so when you wrote it, and wishing you would sing it more often. But once it was done, you set it aside, and I never heard it again, until tonight."

"I had to write it. The first act needed that expression of unspoiled happiness. But it was hard for me to do, as I was then, full of hatred and bitter jealousy. And afterwards… after what happened, I threw the whole score in the fire, and tried to forget it."

"Then you threw out the diamond with the dross, but Christine had the good sense to save the diamond." Madeleine slid out of Erik's arms and stood up. "To your desk, Maestro! If you have destroyed your only copy of that jewel, go now while it is fresh in your memory, and write it again! That song deserves a place of honour in your library."

Madeleine sat back on the sofa, dreamily recalling the evening's music, to the quiet scratching of Erik's pen. At length, he asked softly, "What are you thinking?"

"That you are a better composer now than you were then." Abruptly, she sat up. "I'm sorry, Erik. I don't know what made me say that. It's not for me to judge your music."

He came to sit by her. "And yet I would say that you are right. The audience tonight, they felt it too, although they did not know that the last two songs were by the same hand. Aminta's aria was the very best I could do – then. But Rainbow is better. It makes me think that I could do more with my music, if I really tried. I have never completed a symphony, or an oratorio. And on a smaller scale, there could be other challenges. Music for children, which would inspire them to learn more. Consolation for the sad, refreshment for the tired, celebration for the happy. Music has many powers which I have scarcely explored. I begin to see new doors opening."

O-O-O


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13: Opening Doors - Part 2

If Madeleine had a regret, it was that she could not fully share Erik's music with him. Her own ability was very limited, she knew. Often he would play and sing with her, and she enjoyed the time together. But afterwards, she sometimes thought that he must feel like a racehorse harnessed with a donkey, bringing his skill down to her level. Perhaps it was better when she was simply his audience, letting her soul fly on the wings of his art.

Madame Chevalier brought her children for lessons now. Erik believed the girl had great potential, and often spoke to Madeleine of how satisfying it was to nurture her talent. Nicole had much more ability than Pierre, but that problem resolved itself. Pierre had a good ear, and enjoyed playing tunes on his whistle, but after a few attempts he proved uninterested in learning any more demanding instrument. At the start of the lesson, Erik would teach him a new tune and send him outside to practise it, while in the studio he continued to develop Nicole's skill. Madame Chevalier sat in a corner of the studio, blandly pleased with her talented daughter. Madeleine sometimes listened as well, but it was a mixed pleasure for her. This little girl could give Erik a challenge and a fulfilment that Madeleine could not.

Word spread in the town that Monsieur Lisle was teaching, and a few people asked about lessons for themselves or their children, but Erik usually turned them down. He made an exception for Victor, a young man who was already playing piano professionally. Technically, he was so good that Erik had little to teach him, but his lack was the emotional content of music. He could not convey all the feeling which the composer had put in. Sometimes patiently, and sometimes with irritation, Erik made him immerse himself in the nuances of classical pieces, until Victor began to catch glimmerings of what he had missed before. At Madeleine's inspired suggestion, Erik sometimes had Nicole and Victor share lessons. In some ways the child's naïve honesty could make things plainer to Victor than all of Erik's analysis.

But teaching was a sideline. Erik remained principally a composer. Madeleine had known since the days in the Opera House that, when he was absorbed in a new piece, he scarcely thought about food or rest. With some concern for his health, and with a desire for his company, she gradually tried to modify his habits. She would leave him alone in the studio all day if he was working. But come evening, she would join him there. Even then, she made no sound or demands on him, but bringing a Braille book, she would sit quietly and read. Usually, after a while, he would take the hint, put down his work, and join her for dinner. They would spend the evening together, and go to bed together. Often she woke to find that he had risen early and gone back to his work, but she made no complaint at breakfasting or lunching alone.

One day, she was part way through her lunch, when to her surprise he joined her. He had been working on a musical setting for an epic poem, a challenging task which had absorbed his energies for some time.

"Done," he stated succinctly, helping himself to soup from the tureen.

"Oh, I'm glad! Are you happy with it?"

"Yes, I think so. I shall leave it for a day or two, then play it through again, but I believe it will stand."

Later, in the afternoon sunshine, Erik walked with Madeleine in the garden, perhaps making up for his sometime neglect of her. There was a bench in a secluded grove, and they sat there together, Erik's arm about Madeleine's shoulders, while she rested her head against him. Madeleine held his free hand in both of her own, while they spoke quietly of the house and garden, of the town and its people, unimportant things, but a simple pleasure to share. During a pause in the conversation, Madeleine pressed Erik's hand to her belly. He caught his breath, and gently stroked her. Madeleine's form had always been softly rounded, and the change which he felt now had come so gradually that he had not noticed it before.

"When…?" he asked tentatively.

"September."

"Then… you must have known… for some time."

"I waited, to be sure. And then you were busy…"

Erik turned Madeleine so that she sat across his lap, and drew her into a close embrace. There was silence for a while, until Madeleine broke it.

"Erik, please talk to me. Tell me what you feel about this…"

"I feel… thrilled. Madeleine, you are bringing something new and wonderful into my life. Almost as I felt when we were married. Yes, thrilled, excited… and afraid, too."

"Because you fear a damaged child?"

"That, yes, but mostly for you. Childbearing is not without risk." His arms tightened. "I could not bear to lose you."

"I can make no promise that all will be well. None of us can foresee the future. I remember how near I came to losing you, the night of the Marquis's dinner party. But I do believe that it will be all right." She smiled. "I trust you to take care of me."

"Anything you want…" He chuckled. "I shall probably drive you mad by being over-attentive. But at my age… with my past… to have such a vista opening before me… It is astonishing."

"You… you like the Chevalier children, don't you?"

"Oh, yes. They are well enough, in their way. But this… this will be _our_ child, Madeleine. Well, I have hopes, I have fears. Perhaps I should imagine the worst that could be, and then the reality will be a pleasant surprise."

"And what would be the worst?" she asked archly. "Disfigured… or blind… or tone-deaf?"

"Minx! You are right – I hope he will be musical. He or she, I suppose. So much to think about."

"Then let us begin by going back indoors, and choosing a room to be a nursery."

O-O-O

Their bedroom was flanked on each side by dressing rooms and bathrooms. They planned how the newborn's crib would sit at Madeleine's bedside, then the cot in her dressing room, while the growing child would have his own room across the landing. Returning to the bedroom, Madeleine dropped into a chair and reached to remove her outdoor shoes. Erik forestalled her, kneeling at her feet. He slipped her shoes off and rubbed her feet, then slid his hands up to massage her ankles and calves through the silk stockings. But with a sigh, he arranged her skirt in a seemly manner, straightened his back and rested his hands on her knees.

"Now that you are to be a mother… perhaps you will have less energy to be a wife."

Madeleine reached out to find his face, then leant and kissed his forehead. "My energy is not dimmed since last Saturday. I was wife enough for you then."

"Saturday…? So long? I have been neglecting you…"

"But the music was important. I can wait my turn."

"You did not even try to distract me, this week. Surely you are not afraid to compete with the music for my attention? Are you afraid you might lose?"

"I shall not put you to that test. For then you and I would both be the losers. Erik, your music is such a large part of who you are. I have no wish to make you less than yourself."

"It is true, when the composing fit is on me, I would scarcely be good company. But when the fit passes… then it is my delight that you are there, waiting for me with angelic patience."

She laughed. "Or demonic lust!" Pulling his head closer, she kissed him on the lips, this time with passion. "It has been too long since Saturday…"

O-O-O

Madeleine needed to buy some new clothes, while her own still fitted her, and decided on a shopping expedition to Paris. Erik sent her off indulgently, but insisted that not only Annette, but the manservant Claude, were to go with her as escort. Madeleine had seldom been extravagant, but now she spent rather liberally, knowing that Erik would enjoy her pleasure in new things. Dresses for herself and clothes for the baby were selected in a big department store, and packaged for delivery.

She had almost finished, when from the crowd around her, she heard a tentative voice saying, "Madeleine…?" Madeleine knew the voice.

She turned. The woman went on. "I'm not mistaken, am I? You are Madeleine…?"

"Yes… Madame... I am. But this is not the place for conversation. There is a little park outside the store. I shall sit there for a while when I have finished here. Perhaps we may meet there."

Later, the lady joined Madeleine on a bench in the park. Annette and the other lady's maid were sent a little distance away, while Claude prowled around and watched for pickpockets or other threats.

"Madame la Vicomtesse…" began Madeleine.

"Christine, please. Considering where and how we last met, we should not be formal. Madeleine, there are some things I have very much wished to know. I think perhaps you could tell me."

They had last met when Madeleine had sat at the bedside of an unconscious Christine, holding her hand. But Christine, of course, had no memory of that event, and was thinking of further in the past.

"Very well, Christine. There are some things I might be able to tell you. But there are also secrets which I am honour-bound to keep." Madeleine knew that this chance meeting would arouse Christine's curiosity. She tried to think how little she could tell her, yet satisfy her enough that she would not go searching. The last thing she wanted was for Christine to come disturbing Erik's hard-won peace of mind.

"Were you there, that last night, beneath the Opera House?" Christine asked tentatively. "I did not see you…"

"I was there, in my master's house. Though I cannot see, I heard all that passed. Other things I discovered later. My master did many evil things that night. He killed a man. He kidnapped you. He took your Vicomte prisoner, and threatened to kill him, to coerce you into agreeing to live with him. All this he did, and then he did the one good thing, perhaps the best thing he had ever done in his life. He let you both go."

"Yes." Christine paused. "He set us free. He realised that Raoul is the man I love. For the Phantom…? Respect, gratitude, pity… fear. But when we left… he seemed a broken man. I cannot help wondering… what happened to him. The people searched, but found no trace of him. Nor of you, although perhaps I was the only one who knew that you were there to be found. Can you tell me… did he live?"

"Yes, he lived." Madeleine paused. "It was not easy. He made up his mind to go away, to build a new life elsewhere. But first, he provided for me. Provided very well – as you can see, once I was a servant, and now I have servants of my own. I was always loyal to my master, and he valued loyalty." Madeleine did not want Christine to guess at the marriage. Her gloves hid her wedding ring, and her pregnancy was not yet obvious.

"Do you know where he went, what he did?"

"Even if I did, I could not tell you. Those are not my secrets. But I can tell you… my own beliefs. I believe he lives still, far from here. I believe he is happy. Whether that gives you comfort, or unease, I do not know."

"If he is happy… then I am happy for him. I do not need to seek him out, nor to know more of him. That is enough. Thank you for telling me this. Can I do anything for you, Madeleine?"

"Just… leave me alone. And leave him alone. Forget the past. I mean no disrespect, but it is better if we go our separate ways."

On the train going home, Madeleine cautioned Annette and Claude. "I would prefer that you do not speak to Monsieur, or the other staff, about that meeting. I knew that lady long ago, when I was poor and friendless. She means well, but she brings back unhappy memories for me. Monsieur does not like anything to make me unhappy, especially now." She pressed a hand to her stomach.

"I understand, Madame," replied Annette. "It is forgotten."

O-O-O


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14: Opening Doors - Part 3

For the most part, Madeleine was happy in her pregnancy, although Erik still quietly worried about what might go wrong. He engaged the services of the best midwife in the town, and made enquiries about doctors of good repute in these matters. The midwife visited several times, advised Madeleine sensibly about diet and exercise, and scorned the thought of doctors. Delivering babies was women's business.

The final month, though, was harder on Madeleine. She had recurring backache, and the weather was unusually hot and humid, which she found hard to bear. She grew clumsy, bumping into furniture or knocking things over. Enjoined to exercise, she plodded wearily round the garden each morning and evening, leaning on Erik's arm, but spent much of the rest of the time tossing restlessly on her bed. He took to sleeping in his dressing room, when it became clear that she wanted the bed to herself. He offered to take her to the seaside, where it would be cooler, but she flinched from the thought of the journey, and of trying to find her way around in a strange place. Madeleine became uncharacteristically irritable, snapping at Erik or the maids for smothering her with attention, or, if they withdrew, for not answering quickly enough when she called. Even Erik's attempts to soothe her with music produced only weary sighs, and a request that she be left in peace.

Erik left her room one day, his jaw tight with the effort of appearing calm. He was trying to be patient with her, but it was difficult. But then… how much practice had he ever had at curbing his temper? In his previous life, he had often let rage flow unchecked, with no reason to restrain himself. In this tranquil retirement, annoyances were few and trivial. Madeleine… before this, had she ever tried his patience? She so rarely disagreed with him, she always effaced herself and set his needs first. If she was demanding and self-centred now, she had reason. He must accept that, and pay back some of the consideration which she had always given to him.

Still brooding, he descended the stairs. Near the bottom, his foot encountered some obstacle, sending him in an ungainly sprawl on the hall carpet. With an oath, he rolled to his feet, just as the kitchen door opened. He could hear the two housemaids within, laughing and chattering. Jeanne said, "No, I must just go and get my box. I left it somewhere…" She came out into the hall, to be stopped by the sight of Erik's fierce glare. The box, and its contents of brushes and dusters, lay scattered on the floor. Erik stepped slowly towards her, with the sinister grace of a stalking cat. She backed away until she was trapped against the wall, watching him in horror as he approached to within arm's length.

"Monsieur," she gasped hoarsely, "Monsieur… I'm sorry…" her voice tailed away, as his eyes burned into her. For perhaps a minute, though it seemed eternity, he stared unblinking at her. Tears escaped from her eyes, but she could not look away. When he finally spoke, it was little more than a whisper, but every word etched itself in her mind.

"Do you want to be dismissed without a character? With no chance of finding respectable work in the future?" She shook her head dumbly. "Then consider this. Had it been Madame you brought down with your stupidity, instead of me… you would have had no future to worry about. Now clean up that mess!" He turned and strode away.

Released, Jeanne sank to her knees, shaking, then crawled to the spilled box and gathered the contents. Returning to the kitchen, she tried to explain to the other maid and to Madame Brun, who had heard a little, but not seen. "People used to say he was some kind of devil. And I just laughed. I said, an unfortunate man with a crooked face. But just now… his eyes… oh God, there really was a devil looking at me out of those eyes."

"You asked for it," replied Madame Brun unsympathetically. "I've told you before about leaving things lying about. With a blind lady in the house, you just can't do that. Claire, you had better wait at table tonight. Jeanne is shaking like a leaf. Jeanne, you got off lightly. If it had been Madame you tripped up, I don't know what would have happened."

"But I think I do," whispered Jeanne, too quietly to be heard.

O-O-O

One afternoon, Erik entered his dressing room, and glanced through the open door to the main bedroom. Madeleine lay on her side, her back to him, curled into a tight ball. She was softly weeping. Going in to her, he sat on the bed and put his hand on her shoulder, half expecting her to pull away. But she put up her own hand and gripped his. After a while, she reached for a handkerchief, wiped her eyes and blew her nose, then turned to face him.

"I'm sorry… You have been so patient, and I am being so shrewish… I'm sorry, Erik. And… will you apologise to the servants for me? I'm being unfair to everybody."

He held her hand, stroking it with both his own. "I'll tell them, but they already understand. You feel wretched, and cannot help yourself. Madeleine, if I had known how difficult pregnancy would be for you…"

"Then what? Would you have tried to prevent it? But, Erik, I want our child. It's only the waiting that is so tedious. I wish my back didn't ache so. I wish the weather was cooler. I wish… I wish it was over."

He sighed. "I cannot change the weather, and I cannot determine when the baby will come. But I can do something about your aches." Methodically, he stripped the clothing from her, and arranged her on the bed in the position least uncomfortable for her swollen body. He massaged her back, legs, feet, all of her, keeping her covered with a light sheet, lest the drying sweat bring on a chill. Gradually she relaxed under his cool, skilled hands. It was an intimacy without passion, bringing peace to both of them.

"You are good to me, Erik," Madeleine murmured. "I wish… I could do more for you. I wish I were a real musician, to share that with you. It must be tedious for you, that I cannot…"

"Is that what you think?" He was surprised, and his hands paused for a moment before resuming their work. "Madeleine, when have I ever said that? You are my helpmate, my ideal companion. I have no wish for a… a musical rival. With you as my audience, I am vain enough to bask in your admiration. And, those few times when you offer comments on my work… I am honest enough to admit that you are usually right. You… shed light on my thoughts. You have done that since…" He was silent for a few moments, then began again, hesitantly. "Once… in the old days… You had not long been working for me. One day, you were ill…"

"I remember. You sent me to bed. I thought the sight of me stumbling about must irritate you. But you brought me tea… you spoke kindly…"

"And I played no music while you slept, so as not to disturb you. At first, I did not know why. Gradually I realised… that was the first time I had contributed to the comfort of another human being. My soul was full of darkness then. But perhaps that was the first glimmer of light, the first desire to make someone else happy. Perhaps that prepared me for… the sharper lesson in self-denial that I had to learn later."

"We are none of us alone, Erik. We may try to be, but others touch us."

"Yes. The touch may be painful, but that is what has let light into the heart of me. The darkness is still there, it always will be, but I can keep it caged now. You bring me light, Madeleine, and it's ironic that one who can never know the sun should shine with light of the soul."

Madeleine shifted a little, and he adjusted the pillows supporting her. "I am afraid I have shed little light in the last few weeks."

"When nothing I can do gives you ease… that is painful for me, too, and I feel the darkness in me growing stronger. But now… I know I am bringing you comfort, and the light returns." Stooping, he kissed her cheek. "I love you, Madeleine. Try to sleep, now."

O-O-O

That night, a thunderstorm shattered the silence, and brought torrential rain. Next day, the air was cooler, with a refreshing breeze. The following morning, Madeleine went into labour.

Erik paced from room to room, after the manner of husbands everywhere. Delivering babies was women's business. Going through to the studio, he sat at the piano and sketched out a piece expressing impatience and anxiety. No one would ever want to listen to it, but it occupied him for a while.

Upstairs, Madeleine faced her task, and followed the midwife's instructions. She could bear the pain, now that an end was in view. She expected it to take hours, and it did. The midwife knew her business and kept Madeleine reassured, while Annette hovered in a corner, ready to run errands. She had younger brothers and sisters, and was used to babies. When the time came for Madeleine to start pushing, she gritted her teeth against the screams that wanted to come out. Knowing full well that Erik would be listening, she wanted the first cry he heard to be the baby's.

"That's it… nearly there… one more push, now. There! Wonderful! You have a son."

"Is he… is he all right?" gasped Madeleine.

The midwife understood the question from her blind patient. "Just fine. Not a mark on him. And… yes, he has closed his eyes against the light, but they were open, and they were perfect." She talked on, over the child's cries, busying herself with the necessary tasks. "All his fingers and toes. And everything else a boy-baby should have. There, now." Wrapping the baby in a blanket, she placed him in Madeleine's arms. Madeleine's hand carefully explored his face.

"Can my husband come in to see him?"

"Not yet, he can't. You still have to deliver the afterbirth. And then I need to clean you up. He can wait a while."

"No, he shouldn't… Annette, would you go to Monsieur and tell him… No, words are not enough. Annette, please take the baby and show him to his father."

"Oh, may I, Madame? I promise I'll be very careful."

Madeleine reluctantly gave the baby into Annette's experienced grasp. The girl took him out of the room. Erik was on the landing, by the window at the end, and Annette went to him. "Your son, Monsieur. Madame wanted you to see him." Annette placed the baby in Erik's arms. He sat down rather abruptly on the window seat, gazing at the small miracle.

"And Madame? How is she?"

"Very well, Monsieur. The midwife still has things to do, but she will call you soon."

As Annette returned to the room, Erik unwrapped the blanket and looked at the small, perfect body. Sunlight, falling through the window, picked out every detail, but the baby screwed his eyes against the glare and cried again. Erik wrapped him up, and turned so that his shadow fell on the baby. After a few moments, the child stopped crying, and blinked eyes that were dark and brilliant. "Well, little one, you can see, even if you don't see much, yet. From Madeleine and me came you. Life is full of wonders."

A little later, the midwife called him to the bedroom. He found Madeleine sitting up, propped with pillows, face washed and hair brushed, but looking weary. He went quickly to her side. "Hold out your arms." He carefully placed the baby in her grasp, but she freed one arm and reached out to touch his face. Erik clasped her hand. "He is beautiful, Madeleine. A beautiful gift. Thank you." He leaned and kissed her.

The midwife touched Annette's arm, and led her from the room. "They want to be alone. Let's leave them. Now, if the kitchen can manage a bite of supper, I'd be glad to sit down for a while. I'll leave Madame Lisle to rest for an hour, then see if I can get her started nursing the baby."

In the quiet of the bedroom, the baby slept, and Erik placed him in the crib. He and Madeleine sat holding hands, speaking little, thinking about this new door that had opened on their lives. Some time later, there was a knock, and Jeanne came in with a tray.

"Madame, Monsieur – Madame Brun thought you might like some supper. She has sent up sandwiches, broth, little pies. Claire will be up soon with coffee. But if there is anything else you would prefer, Madame Brun would be delighted to get it for you." She set the tray down, and curtseyed.

"Well, Jeanne, I see you have come out of hiding." Erik touched Madeleine's hand to his face, so that she would know he was smiling. "Madeleine, a few days ago I had occasion to reprimand Jeanne. She has carefully stayed out of my sight since then."

Madeleine also smiled. "Poor Jeanne! A reprimand from Monsieur! I imagine that left you shaking in your shoes."

"It did, Madame," confessed the maid. "But I deserved it. I left clutter on the stairs. It inconvenienced Monsieur Lisle, but it could have been very dangerous to you. I shall not do it again."

"Monsieur can be very… emphatic, if something is wrong. But you seem to have got over the fright."

"Oh, that was Madame Brun. She ordered me to bring the tray up. She said I would have to face Monsieur sooner or later, and…" Her voice tailed away, but Erik laughed.

"Let me guess. She said that you would never again find me in so good a mood as tonight, with Madame safely delivered of a fine son."

Jeanne smiled shyly. "Almost her very words, Monsieur." Curtseying again, she left the room.

"What did you do to the poor girl?" smiled Madeleine.

"My demon stare. I let her see a little of that darkness in my soul. You will have to take my word, it is quite effective."

"Yes, that is a weapon that could not work on me. I remember hearing your demon voice once or twice, when I – " A whimper from the crib interrupted her. Erik brought the baby to Madeleine's arms.

"That was long ago. Our son reminds us – now we should look to the future."

o.o.o End of "Part 3 – Opening Doors" o.o.o


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15: Shadows from the Past – Part 1

The man was grey of hair and grey of aspect. Shabby clothes, weathered brown skin, face creased like old leather and with the same toughness. He sat alone in a corner of the bar, nursing a glass of cheap brandy, seeking oblivion. He paid his way and caused no trouble, so the barman kept him supplied, without comment. The grey man scarcely noticed when a young man came to sit at his table. "I've been looking for you," the young man began. The grey man ignored him. Undeterred, the young man signalled the barman to bring another bottle, and poured a generous helping into the grey man's glass. At that, the grey man looked up. "Thanks…?"

"Bruno."

The grey man nodded. "Faucher."

"You have been asking questions," the young man went on. "Looking for someone. A man with a twisted face."

"Was looking," mumbled Faucher. "Too late. He was here, he was seen. Then vanished, like he always did. Years ago… I've lost track."

"Years ago… at the Opera House?" prompted Bruno. "The one you want… he was a musician, a composer? No?"

"Composer? I don't know… Music, yes. Play anything, sing anything. Devil's face, angel's voice. Tricky voice – come out of nowhere, sound like anything, put you to sleep, make you afraid."

"And what did you want with him?"

"Want? Revenge! He murdered my brother. But what's your interest? You're hardly more than a kid…"

"Revenge. He murdered my father."

O-O-O

Erik turned out the lights in his studio, leaving it to the early winter darkness. He joined Madeleine in her sitting room, in good time to take her through to dinner. As they exchanged comments on how their respective days had gone, Madeleine remarked, "Carl wants a pony."

"Carl is much too young for that. I hope you told him so."

"Yes, I did. I thought he might be bargaining – asking for a pony, when he really wants a puppy or a kitten. But he seems set on the pony. I don't know where he got the idea. It's not as though you and I have been riding recently." She laid a hand on her stomach, where the curve of her second pregnancy was beginning to show.

"He can learn to ride when he's older, but not now. Perhaps I should teach him to swim. That might take his mind off it."

Madeleine smiled. "That would be a good thing to do. And you should find him a more willing pupil than I was."

Early in their marriage Madeleine had once mentioned casually that, when she was a child, her mother sometimes took her riding, as an occasional treat. Erik had no objection to hiring horses for them, and he began taking her out regularly. Madeleine revelled in the freedom of letting the horse watch where they were going. When her balance had improved to the point where they could gallop across a meadow, the movement and excitement left her flushed and laughing with pleasure. Erik used horses as transport rather than a source of enjoyment, but he was a competent horseman. In his younger days, he had learned to ride and swim, to use boats and weapons, and any other skill which seemed likely to assist him in surviving a hostile world.

This had led to another activity which was less pleasant for Madeleine. Erik had been startled to find that she could not swim. Recalling that she had gone into the Opera House lake to save him, it made her action seem brave to the point of folly. He found an enclosed swimming pool which could be hired for private use, and set about giving her this skill. She soon learned basic strokes, but did not like it. Unable to see the pool edge, when she could not touch bottom she felt lost indeed. But Erik wanted her to learn, and she persisted, to please him. Eventually she reached the point where she could let herself fall into deep water, fully clothed, and find her way up to the surface. Treading water, she would feel about her for support. She learned to follow his voice to the poolside, despite the confusing water noise, or to catch a rope thrown to her, and be pulled to the edge. After a session when she had done everything he asked, she changed into dry clothes, but sat trembling with weariness, while he sent an attendant to fetch a hot drink for her.

"Very well, Madeleine. I had hoped that this achievement would give you pleasure, but I see it is a misery, endured for my sake. We shall not do it again. But do you have any idea how many people drown from accidentally falling into water, simply because they cannot do what you can now do? Maybe you will never need this ability, but it pleases me to know that you have it. Thank you for gratifying this whim of mine."

Madeleine came back to the present, as Erik glanced at the clock. "He will be asleep by now. Tomorrow I will talk to him, and try to interest him in swimming. I'll find a story of shipwrecked sailors or some such, in one of his picture books, and lead into the subject from there."

O-O-O

The policeman looked round the ransacked office, attended by the manager.

"We've never been burgled before. I mean, what did they hope to find? Yes, the petty cash, of course. A clock, and a few ornaments. They've rifled through the files, leaving a terrible mess, but what good does that do them?"

"We have had a few other robberies like this. Offices like yours are less well secured, just because the owners don't think they need to fear theft. The paperwork… well, we think the robbers are looking for clues to wealthy households, finding new targets. I suggest you get better locks, and some bars on the windows. If that's all, I'll leave you to your clearing up."

O-O-O

Bruno and Faucher sat together in Bruno's room in a cheap guesthouse.

Faucher grumbled into his drink. "We saved his life, my brother and me. Somebody'd shot him. He was out cold, bleeding… We bandaged him up. Saved his life…"

"And then?" prompted Bruno.

"Well, we had our living to earn, didn't we? I mean, he was worth a bit, a freak like that. We didn't hurt him. We fed him, gave him a roof over his head…"

"Put him on display, in a cage? Charged people admission to see him?"

"Just earning a living, like I said. We even got him a fiddle, to keep him amused. Never hurt him, maybe just stirred him up a bit, to make a show… Then one morning he was gone. My brother was locked in the cage, strangled with his own belt. Swore I'd get the monster for that. You'd think he'd be easy to find, but no… Well, what's the story about your father?"

"Not even a story. He never locked up the monster, or made money out of him, but he still ended up dead. Strangled. I didn't know, not then, not all of it. My mother kept it from me. But on her own deathbed, she told me. And I made a promise that I would avenge my father."

"All very well, but you've got to find the monster first. Can't be done."

"Yes, it can. You didn't pay enough attention to his music. He makes music, that's what he lives for. He's got no easy way to get it performed, not since he left the Opera House. But I was sure he'd want it published. I tried the music shops, and I went to concerts. I wasted a lot of time at first, because I thought he'd write opera, but he doesn't."

"You're not going to tell me you found some wonderful new composer, and you recognised him by the style?"

"Oh, it wasn't that easy. And he publishes under several different names. But I traced them. Found his agent. That took a few attempts, as well. But I got the man. Got his real name, or the one he uses now, and his address. Went to the town, asked a few careful questions. 'Oh, you mean Monsieur Lisle? Unfortunate man, disfigured, you know. Lives very quietly.'"

"What?! You know where he is? Why are we just sitting here? Let's get the bastard!"

"Don't be stupid. Do you want to end up like your brother? You should know by now, he's smart and tricky, and he kills. I've got more sense than to tackle him by myself. But with two of us, it's possible. And now… he has a weakness. I know how we can get him."

O-O-O

Madeleine and Annette dawdled round the shops, picking up a few items for the house, one or two things for the baby. They chatted to friends, then set off for home in the gathering twilight. The half-mile from the town to their house was a pleasant enough walk in mild weather, and Madeleine had found that walking while pregnant was beneficial. They turned a corner, and crossed the arched bridge over the river. If there was any warning sound, the water noise masked it. Suddenly, they were both seized from behind, and pulled to the ground.

Annette found that a bag of some sort had been pulled over her head. When she reached to try to remove it, something tightened on her throat. "Madame – " she choked out. A blow to her head silenced her.

"Don't fight, Annette," Madeleine's voice said shakily. "It won't help."

"Do like she says," a rough voice spoke from somewhere. "Keep quiet, both of you, and you won't get hurt. Make any trouble, and you'll soon wish you hadn't."

They were dragged off the road and down a grassy bank, under the shadow of the bridge. Annette felt ropes being bound round her wrists and ankles. The blindfold was lifted, a gag tied over her mouth, and her eyes covered again before she could see anything in the gloom.

"Now listen, you, servant girl." This was a different voice, younger, but just as hard. "We're going to let you go, and you're going to carry a message to your boss. You tell him that if he wants his wife back in one piece, it's going to cost him. Fifty thousand francs. If he talks to the police – if he talks to anybody – he won't see her again. He's got tomorrow to get the cash, then we'll contact him to arrange delivery. Understand?"

Annette nodded, then tried to force a question through the gag.

"It's all right, Annette." Madeleine's voice was low but fairly calm. "I am bound, but not hurt. Tell Monsieur that."

"Enough chat!" Annette felt movement near her, then realised that her left hand was untied. "All right. You've got one hand loose. The other, and your feet, are tied to a bush. By the time you pick yourself free, we'll be gone. Carry your message!"

O-O-O


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16: Shadows from the Past – Part 2

Erik was at his piano in the studio, absorbed in playing an intricate piece, when the door from the garden burst open, and Annette stumbled in. At a glance, he saw the girl's distress, that Madeleine was not with her, that it was full dark outside. He leapt to his feet.

"Monsieur! Madame has been kidnapped! They want money… they sent me to tell you…"

Erik froze, fists clenched, fighting an insane urge to go racing off into the darkness. He could do nothing without knowledge, knowledge he must get from this frightened girl. Taking her arm, he guided her to a chair. "Sit. Draw breath. Tell me what happened."

Annette told her story, the words initially tumbling out. Gradually she grew more coherent, more careful to tell him every detail.

"Two of them, you say?" he asked, when she had finished.

"Two that I heard. If there were others, they did not speak. But… as they were leaving… I heard a clattering, a noise of wood. It was a boat! Yes, I did not realise until now. Oars being used. They must have moored a boat under the bridge, taken Madame away in it."

"Good, Annette! That gives me something to work with. The river is high. They would have gone downstream. Rowing against the current would be too slow." He paced the room, thinking furiously. Annette watched him, until he came to a halt in front of her. "Listen, Annette. If all they want is money, then I will pay whatever they ask to get Madeleine back safely. But I am afraid… that there may be some more sinister purpose behind this."

"Yes… I wondered. You are well-off, but there are many richer people who might have been made targets. Why you…?"

Erik studied the girl, wondering how much he could ask of her. He tended still to think of her as the shy schoolgirl who had first come to the house before Carl's birth, but she had matured into a competent young woman in the last few years, acquiring much of Madeleine's practical nature.

"Annette, you are fond of Madame, are you not?"

"Oh yes, Monsieur! She has been like a wise elder sister to me. If there is any way that I can help, I beg you to make use of me."

"I think you can help. Did anyone see you come to the house? Strangers outside, or the servants here?"

"No, no one. That's why I came in through the garden, to keep the secret. Those men said not to tell anyone."

"First, we must explain Madame's absence to the other staff. Annette, you are very dishevelled. You must put your appearance to rights, and school yourself to appear calm. Then go to Madame Brun, with a message from me, that Madame and I will be dining out tonight. Apologise for the short notice. Let us say… when Madame was in town with you, she met some old friends, who invited us to have dinner with them at the hotel. Madame remained there, and I am going out to join her. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Monsieur." Annette stood up, glanced at her gown, ran a hand over her hair. "Five minutes with a brush and a mirror, and I shall be presentable again. When I have spoken to Madame Brun, then I can give Carl his supper and put him to bed. I have done it before, when Madame was out."

"Good. Later, we may have to account for Madame's failure to return tonight…"

"Perhaps… she will be taken ill at dinner. You might find it better to engage a room at the hotel for her, rather than bring her home through the night air."

"Clever girl, yes, this is the way to manage. I am going to collect some things, then go out to see what may be seen. But I wonder… I may want to contact you again, without the other servants knowing. I want you to spend as much time as you can here in the studio, without appearing to behave strangely." He went to a table, where many papers lay scattered. "You may say that I have asked you to copy some outlines for me." He pushed some pages into a pile. "How much you do is up to you, but look occupied, if anyone asks."

"I shall do all as you say, Monsieur."

O-O-O

Madeleine sat huddled in the bow seat of the boat, listening to the steady pull of the oars and the muttering of the river beneath them. Her hands were tied before her, a cord securing them to some part of the boat. Perhaps that was just as well. Had she been free, she would have had to decide whether to escape into the water. She was sure that a quick leap would take the kidnappers by surprise. The darkness gave her an advantage. She could not smell a lantern, and the men would not want to risk drawing attention with one. But she remembered enough of her swimming lessons to know that a cold, fast-flowing river was far more deadly than the pool she had learned in, and her winter-thick clothes would be a serious burden. Best that she was not tempted to try. She snuggled her shoulders more deeply into her merino cape, and tried to await events in patience.

The boat ground against a stone wharf, and the men tied it up, then each took one of Madeleine's arms, hauling her up on to the paving, hustling her into some kind of enclosure. She smelled dust, straw, grain. A barn. Downstream from the bridge… she knew where she was. Oak Barn, where hay and crops were stored at harvest, ready to be loaded on barges and taken to market. Too far from home for a convenient walk, but she and Erik had often ridden this way, sometimes sheltering here if a shower overtook them. At this season there would be no use – no legitimate use – for the building until next summer. No disturbance. She heard a match struck, a lantern lit, and hoped fervently that they would be careful with it. Fire would be deadly in this place.

One of the men led her forward, a little more carefully. She stopped when her foot felt some soft obstruction. "Keep still," the man said. Something hard – she guessed a dog collar – was put round her neck and locked into place, and a rope lay across her shoulder. He released the cords from her wrists. "Leave the collar and rope alone, or we'll tie your hands again. That's a bed, in front of you. Sacks, straw, a few blankets. You'll manage. To your left, there's a box with a jug of water and some bread. To the right, a bucket for when you need it. I've even rigged up a sacking screen, give you a little privacy. The rope will let you reach all this. Don't do anything stupid. We've got no grudge against _you_."

Suggesting that they did have a grudge against Erik, Madeleine thought to herself. Best not to reveal her thoughts. Saying nothing, she sat down on the makeshift bed.

"Doesn't say much, does she," she heard the man say to his companion. "Wonder if she's dumb as well as blind."

"She talked to the maid," replied the other, older voice. "Don't complain. Most women in her place would be yammering away like a flock of geese by now."

"You want ransom," Madeleine said quietly. "My husband will pay to get me back unharmed. But the amount… a day will not be long enough. He may have to sell the house, or raise a loan on it. That takes longer. Be patient and you'll get what you want. Ask the impossible and you will get nothing."

"Shut up, you." The older voice again. "I liked it better when she was quiet."

Madeleine had done what she could to throw a little doubt into their minds, to try to buy time for Erik to deal with the situation. No point in making them angry. She lay on the bed, and awaited events.

O-O-O


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17: Shadows from the Past – Part 3

Erik, clad in black, masked and gloved, worked his way along the river. He checked every creek and overhanging tree to see if a boat was hidden there, and sidetracked to farms, barns and outbuildings, looking for signs of illicit occupation. It was an effort to keep focussed on the systematic search, and not to be distracted into thinking of what Madeleine was going through. She had once, long ago, been seized by strangers and raped. That must be vivid in her memory now. He must hope, as she must be hoping, that these men were truly seeking ransom, for then it would be in their own interest to keep her unharmed.

Ransom… if it was only ransom, he would pay. He and Madeleine chose to live in fairly modest style, on the income he made from his music. But he had a reserve of money, obtained less honestly in his past, secreted away in various places. Yes, he would pay. But once he had her safe again… then _they_ would pay. Who did those men think they were dealing with? Monsieur Lisle, who lived quietly, made no trouble, tried to find acceptance despite his malformed face? But that identity was just another kind of mask. Erik felt that mask slipping now, as need drove him to be the man he had always been. Powerful, deadly, dominant over all others. The kidnappers would face the wrath of the Phantom of the Opera. He would have vengeance.

But… perhaps they already knew their enemy. Vengeance could work both ways. He had triumphed over adversaries in the past, some of them still alive. He recalled those bitter days when he had defied the whole world, trampled over those in his way, dared them to do their worst. What could anyone do, but kill him? And what would that matter? But now… now in these days of unforeseen happiness… it did matter. It mattered because he was not the only target. He thought of Madeleine, and of little Carl. They had healed a heart which he once thought was stone. And a heart of flesh can be wounded, can be broken. If his past should destroy their future… how could he live with that?

Erik forced his mind back to the present problem. He had reached the end of the farmed lands. Before him, a stretch of flat, marshy, infertile ground bordered the river for many miles downstream. No hiding place there. Muttering a curse, he realised that he had chosen the wrong side of the river. He peered across. The night was dark, but not too dark for his night-vision. Trees over there, and distant farms, more possible refuges. He considered swimming, but his coat pockets were heavy with useful items. To swim would ruin the bullets in his pistol, and would leave him uncertain about whether to search upriver or down. He still had more than half the night left. Turning, he sped back to the bridge, far more swiftly than he had come, and began his painstaking search on the other bank.

O-O-O

Success. Erik circled the barn warily. Were they really such amateurs as not to realise that a river was an unmissable trail? Or did they expect him to assume that they had gone by road? Even the boat was here, moored openly at the wharf, visible in the hint of grey dawn that crept into the world.

A fragment of lamp-light gleamed from an air-vent in the wall. He moved silently until he found a vantage point which gave him a view inside. The lamp was hung near the door. Beneath it, a man sat on a box, a game of solitaire laid out on another box before him, a glass near his hand. As he took a drink, his face turned up to the light, and memory stabbed out of Erik's past. Faucher! No coincidence, this, no simple ploy for ransom. This was personal.

Erik moved his position slightly. There was Madeleine on an improvised bed. Unmoving, but not asleep; he could see the tension in the way she lay. He must be careful. He would get only one chance at this. But where was the other man? He moved on in his search.

O-O-O

Faucher finished his glass, and reached for the bottle, but it was empty. He swore, then continued to grumble to himself. "Cocky kid, thinks he's so smart. It's too complicated. He wants the money as well as the monster. It'll go wrong. We've got the bait. The monster'll come. Just need to keep it simple. Simpler than this." Heaving himself to his feet, he stumbled to where Madeleine lay. "On your feet, you." He released the rope from the wall, and jerked at the collar. "Getting light. Need to have you where you can be seen."

Madeleine followed him out through the barn door, stumbling a little when he tugged impatiently at the rope. "Gotta tie you up around here somewhere, where he'll see you. But he won't see me…" He pushed her to stand against a tall post, part of a crane used for loading barges. "Damned coat is in the way…" He pulled the cloak from her shoulders and threw it away, then stared in shock at her swelling body.

"Bitch! Hell-spawn bitch! Bad enough to live with the monster, but to breed more monsters…!" With a vicious heave on the rope, he threw her down on the stone-paved wharf, then kicked her hard in the belly. Madeleine cried out at the unexpected attack, and tried to curl into a ball. Faucher drew his foot back for another kick, only to feel his ankle seized in a powerful grip that jerked him off his feet.

Erik had been watching from cover as Faucher took Madeleine out to the wharf. He could still afford to be careful, as there seemed no immediate threat to her. But at Faucher's sudden assault, red rage blazed in Erik's eyes. Without thought, he launched himself at the man. Catching the swinging foot in a trick learned in boyhood from gypsy tumblers, Erik jerked Faucher off-balance. Keeping the momentum, seizing the other ankle, he whirled the man into the air, back-downward and then head-downward. What a tumbler would have turned into a back somersault became, for Faucher, a head-first crash to the stones, with Erik's weight thrown on top of him to increase the force. Faucher landed with a crunching thud, and a gasp of exhaled air. Then he lay still.

Erik leapt to Madeleine's side. "Madeleine… he hurt you… how bad?"

"Erik! I knew you'd come… Erik, be careful. There is another one…"

"Not near. I checked. But you…"

"I… I'll live. Just let me rest for a minute."

Taking off his coat, Erik folded it and slipped it under her head, then covered her with the fallen cloak. Drawing a knife, he carefully cut the collar free from her neck.

"The other one… the young one," she said slowly. "He left… he said he was going to our house… to make sure you had not called the police."

"How long ago? Do you know?"

"Half an hour, maybe. Less than an hour, anyway."

"Then he won't be back for a while. We'll be gone by then."

"Erik, this man… the one who did this… Did you kill him?"

Erik hesitated a moment. "Yes."

"How?"

"Crushed skull. Does it matter?"

"Yes… because now, we don't want the police either. You must… give him to the river. With luck, it will carry him far away before he is found. His head… yes, he could have been swept against a bridge pier, or over a weir. The river will account for him. Set the boat adrift, too. Capsize it."

Erik slipped his mask off, leaned and swiftly kissed her cheek. "Ever practical," he murmured, then went to follow her advice. He heaved the body into the river, using an oar to push it out into the current. There was a little blood on the stones, but he swilled it away with river water from the boat bailer. Going down into the boat, he fastened a rope to the far gunwale, so that he would be able to pull it over from the wharf.

"_Erik!_" Madeleine screamed, and a gunshot rang out at the same moment. Bruno had appeared from behind the waterside crane, and now stood on the wharf, taking aim for a second shot. Erik, at a disadvantage in the boat, leapt for the wharf, knowing he would be too slow.

Bruno was between Madeleine and the water's edge. Recklessly she rolled sideways, knocking the feet from under him, toppling him into the water. Too near the edge to stop, she splashed in after him, and both vanished beneath the surface.

O-O-O


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18: Shadows from the Past – Part 4

Erik ran to the end of the wharf and peered desperately at the water, brown and opaque, surging powerfully. Useless to go in blind – _Madeleine, where are you?_

Ten seconds passed, twenty – there was a disturbance below the surface, a few yards out and downstream of the wharf. Madeleine's face appeared, gasping for air. In a moment, the current took her under again, but in that moment, Erik hit the water in a flat dive that took him straight to her. Clutching her dress, he hauled her to the surface, then locked one arm under her chin to keep her face up, as he turned to swim powerfully for the bank. There the water shallowed a little, letting them stand waist-deep, Madeleine coughing and gasping as she clung to him. He helped her up on to the bank and then climbed out himself, scanning the river for any sign that the man had surfaced. The brown water rolled on blankly.

Madeleine stumbled to her feet, swaying, water streaming from her clothes. Erik quickly took hold of her to support her. "God, this cold will kill you. Back to the barn, out of the wind at least. Can you walk?"

She nodded, winding an arm round his body, and he helped her along the path. They were both icily wet, but Madeleine became aware that, under her hand, Erik's side was wet but warm. She snatched her hand away. "You're bleeding!"

"The shot grazed across my ribs. Some skin gone, nothing important."

In the barn, Erik rapidly stripped the wet clothes from Madeleine, gritting his teeth as he saw the blackening bruise on her abdomen. He settled her on the makeshift bed, wrapping her in all the blankets he could find.

"Damn my cold skin! If I try to hug you I will only chill you more. And we cannot have a fire here."

She squirmed into the blankets, rubbing herself dry, and reached out a hand to touch him. "I will g-get warmer now," she stuttered through chattering teeth. "Erik, care for yourself. That river was too cold even for you."

He peeled his clothes off, twisted them into some sacks to squeeze out the worst of the water, and dressed again, pausing to tear a strip from his shirt and bind it round the bullet-slash on his side. Going outside, he retrieved Madeleine's cloak, his coat and his mask, still lying on the wharf. Once again he checked the river for any sign that the young man had survived, but saw nothing. He returned to the barn.

"No one around. Madeleine, we need to get you home. The boat is still here. I could row us as far as the bridge…"

"I'm not letting you row with an injury, against the current. Besides, the boat must be set adrift, to account for the bodies in the water. Please, Erik, do that now, when there is no one to see…"

She was growing agitated, and he thought it best to do as she wished. When he returned, she seemed calmer, and he sat beside her to discuss their next move.

"We need a carriage. Annette could arrange that, if I can get a message to her." Rummaging in his coat pocket, he produced paper and pencil, and wrote a note. "Perhaps I can find a farm worker or someone, who would carry the note for pay. I told Annette to wait in the studio until she heard from me." He paused to think. "If I cannot find a messenger, I must go myself. I don't want to leave you, but you must be cared for, and quickly."

Madeleine nodded, shivering. "Erik – when you put your coat under my head as a pillow, it felt lumpy. Was one of the lumps your pistol?"

"Yes. And if I had had enough sense to keep it on me, I could have dealt with the second man and spared you the whole river episode. He must have changed his mind about going to our house, or he could not have come back so soon. We might have been safely away…"

"You were too shocked at what had just happened to me. But that's done and past. You have to go now. Leave the pistol with me." She smiled shakily. "If anyone intrudes, the sight of a blind woman waving a gun around should frighten them away!"

Erik slipped away, but was back within quarter of an hour. Remembering that Madeleine had reason to be afraid, and was holding a loaded gun, he called her name before opening the door. She welcomed him back with relief. He had found a boy fishing, happy to earn a few francs by carrying the message, with the promise of a further payment from Annette. Now, they just had to wait.

"You look pale, Madeleine. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes." She sighed wearily. "Tear a piece from a blanket, and fold it into a pad for me. I'm bleeding." She gestured vaguely at her body.

Erik made a low sound of pain. "I'm sorry. I was afraid of that…"

"Faucher didn't like that I was pregnant. It looks as though he got his wish."

Erik did what he could to make Madeleine comfortable. "You knew his name?"

"I listened to them talking, in the night. I don't know why he hated you so."

Erik told her the story of his imprisonment by the Faucher brothers, and his escape. "I didn't recognise the younger man, though. I don't know what he had against me."

"He said you killed his father. His name was Bruno."

"Ah. Then I do know who he was." Erik paused. "And he had a true grievance. Oh, Madeleine, why did I ever let you bind yourself to a bloody-handed destroyer like me?"

"Stop calling yourself names. Tell me about Bruno."

"He was the son of Carlotta Guidicelli. Carlotta had her son when she was quite young. I was not at the Opera House then, but I found out later. She kept it quiet, placed the child in a foster home. She was determined to make a triumphant career, and she succeeded. She always had a powerful voice, and the knack of pleasing audiences. If she was never much of an actress, she could play one role to perfection, the role of a great diva. She did not abandon her son, though. She visited him, and as her fame grew, I think he regarded himself as a sort of prince in hiding, keeping his mother's secret until the day came when she would present him to the world."

"And his father?"

"Piangi, of course. Legitimately so – they were married soon after they first met, although it was considered better for their careers not to advertise the fact. Such fame as Piangi achieved, he reached by clinging to Carlotta's coat-tails. His own talent was mediocre at best. I think he found the boy an embarrassment, but he would do anything to keep Carlotta happy. Carlotta died two years ago. I don't know how Bruno found me."

Madeleine repeated snatches of conversation she had heard, of how Bruno had followed the trail of published music. Erik sat silent for a long time.

"Betrayed… by my music," he said at length. "That… is a hard blow."

"Don't be defeated by him," Madeleine encouraged. "Use different names, more agents. Sell your work abroad. Make sure no one else can repeat the trick."

"Bruno knows, now. If he gets out of the river alive…"

"I don't think so." Madeleine sighed. "I had… just a moment to prepare myself, as I rolled to the edge. I remembered what you had told me about cold water. I clamped my mouth shut, held my nose. As I went under, I felt my lungs heaving, but I did not allow them to draw in water. Bruno… I doubt if he had ever been taught such things. We went to the bottom together in a tangle. He soon stopped moving. I kicked away from him, trying to get to the surface. He felt very still…"

Erik held Madeleine's hand, imagining her blind plunge into the clawing cold water. "You have great courage, and I am very glad of it. But… I'm sorry about Bruno. He had never harmed me."

"Until now," Madeleine pointed out. "He was the driving force of the pair. He kidnapped me, tried to kill you. And… do you think, if he had succeeded, that he would have left me alive to bear witness? No, if I were in the same place, I would do the same again."

They stayed in the barn for nearly two hours. Madeleine dozed a little after her sleepless night, trying to ignore the pain growing within her, while Erik periodically checked outside for any signs of movement. Eventually he saw something coming on the track across the fields. A single horse, trotting briskly, pulling a box-sided delivery van. The driver was muffled in a long coat and broad hat which, as the distance lessened, Erik recognised as his own. The van pulled up by the barn, and Annette jumped down from the seat.

"I though a carriage would look out of place among the farms," she explained at once. "The van will draw less notice."

"That is true," agreed Erik. "I had not expected you to drive here yourself."

"Farm-born, remember? I drove horses as a child. And the fewer people who know about this, the better. Your note mentioned Madame's illness. I was not sure if that was part of the story we fabricated yesterday, but I feared otherwise."

"I'm afraid it's true. We have dealt with the kidnappers, but she was injured, and we have both been in the river."

"Oh, poor Madame! I'm sorry. But she can lie down in the back of the van. I had the hire man line it with hay." She flushed. "I led him to believe… I was meeting a lover. That I wanted a vehicle with a little comfort and privacy."

"Annette, you are a jewel! Whatever I pay you, it isn't enough! Come, let us get Madeleine ready to travel."

On Erik's instructions, Annette had brought warm clothes for Madeleine, who was now very ill and lethargic. They wrapped her up, then Erik carried her to the van and settled her there. Erik drove, and Annette sat with Madeleine. On the way, they arranged their stories. The house staff would be told that Madeleine had had a bad fall, and had spent the night in town. But she wanted to come home, and Erik had hired the van as it would let her lie flat, which she could not easily do in a carriage. Once home, they called a doctor for her, but there was little he could do. She had already lost the baby. The doctor prescribed rest and a strengthening diet, and made optimistic comments that she would still be able to have children.

That evening, as dusk fell, Erik went alone into the garden, carrying a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. In a sheltered corner he dug a tiny grave and buried the dead baby, to be absorbed into the earth. Perhaps, if he had cleaned away the detritus of blood clots and torn membranes, he could have seen whether it was boy or girl, normal or disfigured, but that would have been pointless. Born five months too soon, it was a lost hope, destroyed by its father's past. And now… what else was lost? Erik made a silent promise, to the child or to himself, that he would plant a lilac tree here. Madeleine loved the scent of lilac. Perhaps, one day, she would sit beneath the tree and think of him with kindness, despite this loss which he had brought upon her. Sadly, he returned to the house.

Madeleine lay very ill for several days, often quietly weeping. The physical pain was the least of it, as she mourned for the lost child, and she only slowly regained her strength. Her sleep was troubled by confused dreams, images of the baby dying in the warmth of her womb, and Bruno dying in the cold river. She had taken a life, and a life was taken from her. Erik and Annette took care of her between them. When Carl asked for her, he was allowed to see her, but warned to be very quiet. Madeleine cuddled him and tried to soothe him, but he soon grew tired of the sickroom, and was happy to go away and play with the housemaids.

Heavy rain had swollen the river further, and there were several drownings during that winter. Scanning the newspapers, Erik recognised both of the kidnappers in the descriptions of unknown victims, many miles downstream. The boat was found too, smashed in its passage over a weir. The deaths were recorded as accidental.

Madeleine was troubled for Erik. He was attentive, ready to do anything she wanted, or just to sit by her if she needed company. But he would not talk, beyond terse necessary remarks. She had no inkling of what he was feeling. She had thought he was worried about repercussions from the deaths, but even with that fear removed, he was still guarded, silent. Eventually she could bear it no longer.

"Erik, why won't you talk to me? Are you grieving for the baby? If you are, won't you share that with me? It is my pain as much as yours."

"Oh, God, Madeleine, don't you think I know that? Don't you understand? I brought this pain on you. I should never have married you, never let you trust me. Don't you know I am the Angel of Death? I used to call myself that, to terrify people. Now... it terrifies _me_. For years I sowed death, not caring if I would have to reap the harvest, because I took thought only for myself. Now… I am not alone. I see death reaching for those I love, for you and Carl. I must stop casting that shadow upon you. I have already contaminated you with my plague. You killed a man. You did not intend to, it happened because you defended me. But now it preys on your mind. These many nights, I have listened to your broken words of remorse in your sleep. I must go, far from you, before I truly bring death to you. You will be better off without me, you can forget…"

"Erik, how dare you! How dare you say such a thing to me! Without you, I die. A death of the soul, even if death of the flesh is a little delayed. If living with you risks death, to be without you makes it certain."

"You will have Carl…"

"To face his questions. 'Where is Papa? Why did he go away?' To be with him every day, and mourn that he is not you. To learn to hate him, perhaps, for being a lever that forced you away."

Madeleine stretched out a hand to Erik, desperate for his touch, but he backed away, out of reach. Throwing back the covers, she swung her feet to the floor and stumbled from the bed, groping for him. Bumping into a chair, too weak to balance, she toppled, but he was there, catching her before she fell, sweeping her up and settling her once more on the bed. "Madeleine, don't! You know you must rest."

"Never, if you leave me. I will follow you, round the world, to heaven or to hell. Erik, I took you for better or worse, and I knew the worst. You vowed to me, till death us do part. You are _mine!_"

"Damn you, woman! You want to chain me?"

"We _are_ chained to each other. You know it." She heaved a long breath. "But I could release you… Erik, take my hand."

Slowly he reached out to her hand. She gripped his in a businesslike clasp, striving for calm.

"You want to be free, Erik?" she said softly. "Then this is all you must do. Tell me that you want to leave me, for your own sake, not mine. Tell me that you are tired of me, that I am a burden, that you would be happier without me. Convince me of this, and I will let you go, with my blessing."

"Madeleine…" He steadied his voice. "Madeleine, you are no burden, but I want to go. I have stayed here too long. I am not made to be tied down. I will be happier – " But a broken sob choked the lie in his throat. He slumped to his knees at the bedside. Madeleine felt his tears falling on their clasped hands. Reaching across with her free hand, she stroked his head soothingly.

"It's all right. It's all right. I understand. You think that your leaving would be best for me. But Erik, there is no _me_, there is only _us_. We are like… strands twisted into a rope. Apart, we are nothing. To be together is our strength."

Raising his head, he looked into her face, seeing only love there. "I was so sure… that I must leave you… even though it would destroy me. I never thought…"

"That it would destroy me too? Then learn that lesson, Erik. The only life for us is a life together."

O-O-O

It took time for Madeleine to regain her health, but by spring, she felt truly well again. Another year came and went. One beautiful day, the following spring, found her seated in the garden in warm sunshine, cradling her new baby in her arms. Birds sang around her, while the lilac tree above her scented the air. From the path came the padding of small unshod hooves, as Erik led Carl around on the promised pony.

The past cast no more shadows. Life was good.

o.o.o End of "Part 4 – Shadows from the Past" o.o.o


	19. Chapter 19

_**Author's note:** Thank you to everyone who has stayed with me until now, and especially to those who left reviews. I hope you all enjoyed the journey._

* * *

Chapter 19: Epilogue

Erik stretched himself on the cushioned bench, enjoying the afternoon sun as it warmed him… warmed his old bones. Why shy away from the word? He was old. But the latter part of his life had been so blessed that it was no pain to be old.

He heard the voices of the children across the garden, following their various amusements. There was Carl, sixteen now, his voice steadying into adulthood. A man's firstborn son is special. Erik had always loved the handsome, clever boy, but had been hard put to conceal his disappointment, when Carl showed little interest in music. His concealment had not been effective enough. Carl, on his tenth birthday, had come to him and asked to be taught piano, and Erik knew it was to please the father, not the son. Erik had been a patient teacher, and Carl a diligent pupil. By the end of a year, he could play quite competently, but his heart was not in it. Erik released him from the duty, and asked what he would like to do instead. Carl had thrown himself into mathematics and the sciences, and it now looked as though that was the real love of his life. He had learned these things from Erik until he outstripped his father, then able tutors were found for him. Soon he would start university, the first of the fledglings to leave the nest.

Antoine was only twelve, still a child, though not for much longer. He took to music with a casual ease, not very interested in complicated classical forms, but able to get a lively tune out of most instruments. He sang effortlessly, in a pure treble. Enjoy it, boy, while it lasts! And he was already showing considerable talent as a dancer, something that Erik had never aspired to. Listen to him now, counting beats, calling instructions as he danced some steps of his own invention with Michelle.

Little Michelle… not a child of his blood, but as dear to him as his sons. Seven years ago, one morning the gardener had come hammering at the house door, and took them all to see. A little child, no more than three, chained like a dog to the garden gate. She should have been crying, but she made no sound. She was wrapped in a blanket, pulled close about her head and body, just a pair of frightened eyes peering out from the folds. Madeleine had held her and spoken soothing words while Erik cut the chains, and they carried her to the house. It took Madeleine more than an hour to persuade the child to relinquish her blanket, with a storm of sobbing. Erik, standing near, told Madeleine quietly what she could not see, that the little girl had a hare-lip. Madeleine nodded, and went on holding and rocking her, kissing her cheeks and brow, stroking her hair, telling her that everything would be all right. They made enquiries with the police, but when her parents could not be found, they adopted her. She learned confidence and love, and she took upon herself the task of being Madeleine's eyes. A warm, giving child with a beauty of her own, though the world could not see it. But if the eyes of the world grew too burdensome, Erik had investigated the possibilities of surgery. If Michelle ever chose it, it would be done.

Erik wondered if either of the boys would love her as more than a sister, as she grew up. Probably not, having known her since childhood, but if it was her wish, she could make a good wife for someone, if only she were given the chance.

They would be all right… there was enough money… with Madeleine's good management, they would want for nothing. What money could buy, they would have. What money could not buy, love, security, and health, they already had. Yes, they would be fine.

A strange heaviness in his chest made Erik's breathing laborious. Perhaps he could sleep for a while…

O-O-O

The children had noticed that Papa was asleep, and moved their games to the other end of the garden, not to disturb him. It was later, as the sun moved behind the trees, that Carl went to him, to tell him it was time to go indoors. Carl found that, for his father, there would be no awakening. Quiet and thoughtful as always, Carl went to Madeleine and brought her there. Her touch told her what Carl's eyes had already seen, that Erik had left them. Madeleine stooped to kiss the misshapen lips, colder now than in life, while her silent tears fell on his face.

There were things that must be done, and Madeleine had never shirked her duties. She called the younger children, and let them see what had happened. There was no outcry. Grave and quiet, they faced the reality of death. Madeleine explained to them that to care for the body was the last act they could perform for someone they had all loved. She sent them to fetch water and clean linen, and there in the garden she washed and shrouded her husband, calm and practical as always, but with the tears running down her face. On an improvised litter, Carl and Antoine carried him to the house.

There Madeleine dressed him afresh, in his most elegant black suit. From a cupboard that the children had never seen opened, she brought a smooth wig of dark brown, and an ivory mask that concealed the distortion of his face. Seating herself, gathering the children around her, she told them the whole story of the Phantom of the Opera, the bad as well as the good. It was a long tale. They absorbed it, saying little. They had known, in general, that Papa's early life had been hard, and that his family had brought him happiness. It would take time for them to come to terms with the evil things he had once done, and to understand how he had tried to make amends in his later life. They would keep the secrets from other people, but within the family, there was to be no more concealment. He would go to his grave as the Phantom.

The next day, they arranged the funeral, and opened his will, in case he had left any last instructions. Madeleine knew the general terms. She was provided for, for the rest of her life. The children would eventually have to earn their own livings, but there was enough to educate them and to give them a good start in whatever field they chose. But there was another envelope, addressed in Braille to Madeleine, which she had not known was there. In the solitude of the chamber she had shared with Erik, she opened his letter and began to read. It was dated from March, five months ago.

_My beloved Madeleine,_

_If you are reading this, then I am dead. Did I have a chance to bid you farewell? If not, let this be my goodbye._

_This last winter struck a strange chill in me, a chill of grey skies and short days, not warmed by a comfortable house nor the warmth of our family. I think I shall not live through another such winter. So now I must say what I should have said sooner. Madeleine, a new century has opened since first we met. Some things I can deal with. Electric light instead of gas has no mystery for me. In time, automobiles may wipe out horses from our lives. But these are small things. I look at larger things, at what is happening in France, and in Europe as a whole, and I do not like what I see. I think it is time to leave Europe and seek a fresh place. I have considered Quebec, or New Orleans, but there may be other possibilities._

_I should have spoken sooner, but now, for myself, I have left it too late. I have not the strength to face such a move; it would break the health I have left, and I do not wish to burden you with the invalid that I would become. But when I am dead and buried, then you should take the family and go. Carl is the man of the house now, with a maturity beyond his years. His strength will be your support; let your wisdom be his guide. Care for Antoine and Michelle, until they have grown and can care for you._

_May life give you all the happiness that you have given me._

_Erik_

Madeleine put the letter aside, so as not to wet it with her tears. But she had not yet read his last words, for there was another page. Wiping her eyes, she reached for it. Her fingers scanned the top line, and she caught her breath, for this was dated a mere week ago. As she read the words, she seemed to hear his voice speaking them in her ear.

_Madeleine,_

_I thought I had said all that I wanted to say, but now I must add to this letter._

_Madeleine, I think that you are pregnant. Perhaps it is vanity on my part, to believe that a man my age could father another child. And yet you and I know, as no one else could ever know, how our embraces have never lost their sweetness. I look at you now, and I see a glow in your skin, a serenity in your smile. (And, dare I say it? – a swelling in your ankles!) I have seen these signs before._

_If there is to be a new child, that is all the more reason for you to make a new start in the New World. I shall never see our youngest child. But I hope that all will be well for you, and that this can be my final gift. Truly a gift of love._

_Erik_

o.o.o THE END o.o.o


End file.
